


The Devil's Muse (Fantasma Dell'Opera)

by seraph_writes



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber, ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Stands (JoJo), Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Diavolo is the Phantom, Feminine Reader?, Historical References, Love Triangles, Other, Phantom of the Opera AU, Reader is Christine, Reader wears Christine's wedding dress so idk, Reader-Insert, Violence in Later Chapters, diavolo might be a little ooc?, gender neutral reader, idk i'm trying my best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24219586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraph_writes/pseuds/seraph_writes
Summary: A ballerina turned aspiring soprano, and the mysterious 'Opera Ghost' who shadows their every move.A bizarre retelling of The Phantom of the Opera starring the cast of Golden Wind.(previous title: Fantasma Dell'Opera)
Relationships: Diavolo (JoJo)/Reader, Giorno Giovanna/Reader
Comments: 59
Kudos: 130





	1. Overture

Your first impression of the Naples Opera House was that it was very intimidating. The enormous Baroque-style building stood before you, gleaming and brilliant. The massive courtyard bordered with wrought-iron fences and the wide steps carved from white marble seemed all too tall and towering compared to you. You got the sudden feeling that you were under-dressed, simply clad in your everyday clothes, carrying a bag containing your ballet slippers and other essentials. 

_No,_ you reminded yourself, _they wanted you here to join the ballet company, this is your job now._ You had worked your ass off for years to get where you were now. Dancing had been your passion ever since you were a kid, and you knew that it would be hard work going professional. There had been so many bruised feet, rolled ankles and days spent practicing -- too many to turn back now -- but here you were, at the most prestigious opera house in Napoli.

You gathered your courage and headed up the front steps to the entrance, past the ornately carved reliefs of human figures in the marble pillars, and right up to the stately, wooden double-doors. Once inside, you were greeted by a handsome man in a white suit. He had a sort of professional air about him, he smiled at you and it was restrained, but not unfriendly. 

“Excuse me, are you the new dancer?” The man asked. “Yes, I am,” you replied, your voice wavering a little. “ _Bene!_ I am Bruno Bucciarati, the Opera’s ballet instructor.” He smiled warmly at you, extending his hand to shake. “It’s nice to meet you, Signore Bucciarati,” you replied.

“Please, follow me. Monsieur Polnareff would like to have a word with you,” he said. Signore Bucciarati led you through the backstage entrance, which became more crowded and hectic the further you walked. Stagehands and dancers rushed to and fro, carrying set pieces and putting on costumes. It seemed a dress rehearsal of Verdi’s _Otello_ was about to take place. On the other end of the room, was a middle-aged man right in the middle of the chaos. He was tall and a little thin, with white hair. One of his eyes was covered by an eyepatch and he was walking with an embellished underarm cane. You recognized him as Monsieur Polnareff, the owner and manager of the opera house.

Signore Bucciarati waved him over and his eye lit up when he spotted you standing next to the brunet ballet instructor. “Hello, _ma belle_ , I’ve been waiting for you to arrive!” Polnareff greeted you warmly, “I think you’ll like it here at the Naples Opera.” His enthusiasm was overwhelming but nonetheless contagious. “I’m sure Signore Bucciarati doesn’t mind showing you around, it seems I have a dress rehearsal to attend to. _Adieu_.” With that, Monsieur Polnareff hobbled off in the opposite direction, leaving you with Bucciarati. 

“I should give you a tour, then, and introduce you to some of the other dancers,” The brunet said. You followed him through the winding backstage area, filled with stage crew rigging up curtains and the huge lights that illuminated the stage. Bucciarati took a swift turn down a long hallway that cut through the backstage area of the opera house, and it was then that you realized that you’d fallen behind from your tour guide. You broke into a jog in order to catch up with him, but then you heard something that made you stop dead in your tracks.

Your name.

You could have easily blamed it on the wind or simply brushed it off as your mind playing tricks on you, but no; someone in the hallway had just called out to you and said your name. It sounded like it had been whispered on the air, like it was coming from every direction at once. Your mind kept replaying the sound over and over again: it was a deep and dangerous voice, a man, you decided. A man had just said your name. Every syllable rolling off his tongue and wracking your spine.

Your gaze whipped back and forth but you could see no one. You were broken from your reverie by Signore Bucciarati calling you from the other end of the hallway. “Coming!” you spluttered and raced after him. 

Bucciarati took you into a room that must’ve been where the ballerinas practised. One wall was covered in floor-length mirrors and there were groups of ballerinas in their dancing slippers loitering in the corners of the room. Three of them, sitting against the far wall, seemed to perk up when you and Bucciarati entered the room. “Hey, Bucciarati!” one of them called. It was a boy perhaps a few years younger than you, with messy black hair and a golden tan. “That’s the new dancer, right?” asked another, pointing to you. “Yes they are, and you should probably address them with a bit more respect,” Bucciarati chided. The first boy scrambled to his feet and approached you.

“I’m Narancia, nice to meet you,” he chirped. You shook his hand politely and he sat back down with his friends. “We will be meeting here later for practice,” Bucciarati informed you before you were left to your own devices.

* * *

“Have any of you heard the tales of ghosts in the opera house?” It had been a good month or so since your first day at the Naples Opera House, and you had gotten much more used to the hectic day-to-day schedule. You had taken to hanging around the backstage area in between practice and watching the rehearsals. You felt a little jealous of the singers on stage. As much as you loved to dance, you couldn’t help but feel like singing was what you were _meant_ to do. That being said, you didn’t like being around a certain group of the stage crew. They were very intimidating and all seemed to hang around each other in a group, leering down at you from the rafters. 

That brought you to the present, where two of the said stagehands were trying to scare some of the ballerinas by telling ghost stories. “There have been multiple occasions where people inside the opera house have seen and heard things that they can’t explain,” Sorbet and Gelato were two of the head stagehands, practically connected at the hip. They were like imps who enjoyed causing mischief. Gelato was sitting across Sorbet’s lap, speaking to a gaggle of ballerinas who had stopped by on their lunch break. 

“They call him the Phantom of the Opera,” Gelato was saying, “No one knows who he is or why he’s here, but they say his spirit haunts the opera house.” The ballerinas giggled and murmured nervously to each other, but motioned for Gelato to go on. “The Phantom is the reason Box 5 is always kept empty, it’s to appease his undead spirit--” You turned to gaze up at the private boxes high above the floor of the auditorium, and noticed that the lights in it were off, unlike the others. Now that you thought about it, you’d never actually seen anyone use it during a performance…

“That’s ridiculous,” you blurted out, turning back to Sorbet and Gelato, “Monsieur Polnareff doesn’t seem like the superstitious type.”

“ _Oh_ ?” Gelato sneered, “You haven’t even been here for very long. Give it a few more months, maybe the Phantom will come along and _snatch you up--_ ” But you were already walking away. You didn’t like how scared his words made you, and how this ‘Phantom of the Opera’ was giving an answer to all the strange things you had experienced since you arrived.

You turned a corner in the hallway and almost ran into Narancia. “Oh! Hey! I was looking for you!” he said, “I have to hurry and meet up with Mista, and… we kinda snuck into the west storage room earlier and I left my bag there by accident… could you go grab it for me?” he sheepishly asked. “Sure, I’ll leave it in the dance studio for you.” you replied. “Awesome! You’re the greatest!” the boy cheered as he disappeared down the corridor.

You found the west storage room within a few minutes and stood awkwardly in the doorway. The cold, musty air of the room seeped out and caused goosebumps to break out on your arms. It was completely dark save for the few thin windows near the ceiling which let in a feeble amount of light. You cautiously stepped into the storeroom, moving carefully as not to run into any boxes in the darkness. 

To distract yourself from the unease you felt, you began to mindlessly sing the first song that came to mind:

_Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green_

_When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen_

_Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?_

_T’was my own heart, dilly dilly, that told me so._

As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you spotted a dark blue backpack sitting next to one of the tall, industrial shelves. It had an orange handkerchief tied around one of the straps. Just as you picked it up, a strong gust of wind blew through the room and the door slammed shut, making your heart leap into your throat. You stood completely still, not daring to look behind you. _The gust you’d felt was caused by someone in the room with you_. You heard breathing coming from a few feet away.

“Who’s there?” you heard yourself say. Your voice shook. “ _Don’t be afraid_ ,” You felt your blood freeze in your veins. A deep, dangerous voice answered you, the voice of a man who had called out your name only a month earlier. “I am merely a patron of this fine opera house,” the man explained. His voice sounded like a predator who had caught his prey. “I have seen many different faces come through those doors but none have I been so fascinated with as you, _mio fiore_.”

“Who are you?” you asked nervously. “I am the one they call ‘Phantom of the Opera’.”

“Impossible,” you muttered, “the Opera Ghost is just a myth… A ghost story they call to scare new dancers and stagehands.” The Phantom chuckled menacingly, a deep intoxicating sound that sent a different kind of shiver down your spine. Your palms began to sweat. 

“I can assure you that I am very real, _mio fiore_ ,” he continued, “and it seems there is something you desire that I can provide for you.” You gulped, “What is it?”

“Do you dream of becoming a star? One that crowds will travel miles for, just to hear you?” he purred. “Not really,” you replied, “I just want to sing.”

“I can give that to you,” the Phantom said, “I will be your tutor and coach you in the ways of music.”

You felt compelled to face the mysterious Phantom, and shifted to look behind you. “ _Don’t_ ,” the Phantom hissed, causing you to halt, “ _...turn around_. I must keep my identity a secret, you understand.”

“Be here tomorrow at exactly 3 o’clock after your practice is done. This room is left unsupervised for exactly one hour and that is when your lessons will begin.” He commanded. You opened your mouth to reply but another gust of wind cut you off. You stayed there a moment longer, feet frozen in place, until you heard the sound of the door creaking open behind you.

You were alone in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that the reader sings is 'Lavender's Blue'. Also, there is a bit of foreshadowing in this chapter. Can you guess where?
> 
> A quick translation of the French/Italian words used:  
> bene - good  
> signore - mr/sir  
> monsieur - mr/sir  
> ma belle - beautiful  
> adieu - goodbye  
> mio fiore - my flower


	2. Think of Me

Past the dressing rooms, through the winding backstage hallways, at the end of a hallway cluttered by boxes and old stage props was a secret room. Whenever you needed to get away from everything for a while, you went there. The derelict wooden door creaked on its hinges as you slipped through and descended the spiral stone staircase into the small, silent room.

It was completely made of stone, with old stained-glass windows set in the walls. On either side of the room were hallways that led deeper into the labyrinth that lay under the Opera House, but you had never ventured down them for fear of getting lost. Only one object sat in the room. A rusty brass candle holder. All but one candle had been burned down to stumps, and sometimes you like to come down here where it was calm and quiet to light the last candle and savour the silence.

If you were religious, you would have prayed, but tonight you simply gazed at the flickering flame as it danced on the burning candle wick. You exhaled deeply, letting your eyelids shut and a sense of peace fill your body. It was good to get away from everything for a while and lately you had been feeling completely overwhelmed. This felt like the first breath of fresh air you’d had since setting foot in the Opera Napoli.

Slowly, a gentle tune started in the back of your throat, humming along to a song that wasn’t there. Then it grew louder until you were singing the words.

_ Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor _

_ Darkness stirs and wakes imagination _

_ Turn your face away from the garish light of day _

_ Turn your thoughts away from the cold, unfeeling light _

_ And listen to the music of the night. _

Your voice came out softly, hardly loud enough for you to hear the lyrics, but somehow you knew the song. Your lips parted to sing the final lines, but someone interrupted you:

**_You alone can make my song take flight,_ **

**_Help me make the music of the night._ **

You gasped sharply at the voice, a rich baritone filling your mind and then the next second it was gone. Your candle went out suddenly, the flame being replaced by a thin stream of smoke that drifted up into the air.

“Mio fiore,” the Phantom said, “you are very lucky. There are very few who can say that they’d been lavished with my praise.” By now you were on your feet, not daring to turn and face him. You opened your mouth to speak, but instead felt something push your back, pinning you to the stone wall. A gasp tore itself from your throat. You could almost feel the Phantom’s entire body pressed against yours and his breath against the shell of your ear as he lowered his head. “Your voice…” he hissed, “It  _ enchants me _ .”

Your head had been forced to the side as you had been shoved against the wall, and because of your proximity you caught your first glance of the Opera Ghost. He was tall -- you had guessed that -- with broad shoulders, as they came into your peripheral vision. You caught a glance of a black cloak and felt a cold leather glove as he gripped your wrist and held it against the small of your back.

“I assume that you haven’t forgotten your lessons tomorrow,” It was more of a statement then a question. You could only nod dumbly. “Good,” said the Phantom, “Then I will see you soon,” and with that, he was gone.

* * *

If there was one person in the Naples Opera House you didn’t like, it would have to be Prosciutto Giudicelli. He was the opera’s “prima donna” so to speak, and a horror to be around. The only plus side was that he had a great voice and got the opera house a lot of attention.

It had been almost a year since you joined the Naples Opera House and many months since that strange encounter in the west storage room. The entire opera house was in full swing, as a dress rehearsal for Chalumeau’s  _ Hannibal _ was about to commence. You were decked out in your intricate ballet costume, the same as the rest of the ballerinas. Your hair was adorned with golden ribbons, you wore a beaded top and layers of orange chiffon that looked like a sunset. Signore Bucciarati was running you through the routine for the opening scene. Occasionally you would pass Narancia or Mista as you all twirled and leaped across the stage, and whenever you did you’d make eye contact and grin jokingly at each other.

“ _ Excusez moi,  _ ladies and gentlemen!” the voice of Polnareff interrupted as he hobbled out onto the stage. The irritated maestro gave the signal to stop the music, “Monsieur Polnareff, we are trying to have a dress rehearsal here.”

“Yes, uhm -- sorry to interrupt but there’s an important announcement I need to make,” The white-haired man said, “Everyone, if I could have your attention, I would like to introduce the theatre’s new patron; Visonte Giorno Giovanna di Brando.”

Polnareff made a grand, sweeping gesture with his arm and the dancers and singers alike clapped politely as a handsome young man emerged from the other end of the stage. He had golden blond hair tied into a simple braid in the back, with dazzling blue eyes that seemed to be in a world of their own. He wore a smart, brightly-coloured suit that made him look more like a prince than a viscount. 

“My family and I are excited to support all the arts,” he said, “that includes Napoli’s world-renowned opera house.” the Visonte gave a polite smile after finishing his short speech and the performers gave another round of applause.

“Now,” announced Monsieur Polnareff, “you may resume preparations for tonight’s performance.” As you and the other ballerinas retreated to the sidelines, Prosciutto strode onto the stage in full makeup and costume, accompanied by Risotto Nero, the lead tenor, and a procession of singers. 

_ With feasting and dancing and song, tonight in celebration _

_ We greet the victorious throng, returned to bring salvation! _

_ The trumpets of Carthage resound! _

_ Hear, Romans, now and tremble! _

_ Hark to our step on the ground! Hear the drums, Hannibal comes! _

The number finished with a flourish as you and Narancia hurried to the front of the strange along with the other ballerinas, striking a pose in front of the huge, prop elephant. Excited applause came from Polnareff and Bucciarati who were watching from the sidelines, not noticing Prosciutto’s scowling face. “ _ Magnifique!  _ It’ll be a full house! We are so excited for tonight’s--”

“All they want is dancing, dancing,  _ dancing, _ ” Prosciutto snapped. He pointed a finger at Polnareff and Bucciarati, “none of you know what the opera truly is, and until you do, I will not be singing! Risotto,  _ seguimi! _ ” With that, he marched off the stage, Risotto, his frantic assistants and the other singers trailing behind him.

“W-What do we do?” Polnareff muttered. Suddenly, Gelato descended from the rafters, hanging over the two men like a bat. “Grovel, grovel, grovel.” he chanted mischievously. Bucciarati and Polnareff were on their feet in a moment, chasing after Prosciutto:

“Signore, please wait!”

“Prima donna!”

“ _ S _ _ ì, sì, sì, _ ”

“Isn’t there an aria in Act 3? Perhaps the Signore would indulge us?” Giorno gracefully swept in to intervene. Prosciutto whirled around, “Unfortunately no, I do not have my costume for Act 3 because  _ someone _ had to go and mess it up.” he angrily eyed one of his assistants who cowered under his gaze. “Oh, if you would spare your waiting audience with one song?” Polnareff practically crooned. He was laying on the charm thick, “Maestro, the aria from Act 3, if you please.” The Maestro seemed startled by this, and scrambled to get the orchestra into position.

Prosciutto sighed and leveled Polnareff with a cold stare, but it was no secret he was excited to show off. “Maestro,” he commanded, and the music began.

_ Think of me, think of me fondly when we’ve said goodbye _

_ Remember me, once in a while, please promise me you’ll try. _

_ Then you’ll find that once you long-- _

He had barely gotten through the first few lines of the aria when a peculiar sound came from above you. You looked up only to realize that a set piece hanging above the stage was  _ falling _ . The other performers screamed and dashed out of the way, but Prosciutto, who had been distracted, was not so lucky. The set piece caught on his elaborate costume and he fell to the ground, pinned under the heavy backdrop. 

You gasped softly as you spotted a strange figure fleeing from the rafters. It could have been a stagehand, you thought -- until your eyes caught the movement of a dark cloak rippling behind the figure as it disappeared from sight.

Then, your ears registered the sounds of commotion and the furious, mortified screams of Prosciutto as the set piece was lifted off of him.

“Sorbet! Gelato! What the hell is going on up there?” Bucciarati shouted. Sorbet emerged and leaned over the side of the rafters, “It wasn’t my doing, signore, I wasn’t at my post. Gelato isn’t here either, he’s downstairs,” he grinned wickedly, then continued, “If there was someone here… well, it must have been a ghost.”

This caused the commotion to grow into an uproar. Narancia grabbed your arm and shook it, bounced excitedly on the spot: “I can’t believe it! It’s the Opera Ghost! It’s actually real!” you however, could not join in his enthusiasm. You simply felt a deep unease in your gut. A premonition, perhaps, that this was the start of something  _ bad _ .

“Quiet down everyone!” Polnareff shouted, then turned to Prosciutto who was positively furious, “I-I’m very sorry signore… but these things do happen--”

“ _ These things do happen? _ ” Prosciutto echoed in a voice that quivered with barely-contained rage. “Yes, these things do happen, and have been happening for the last year! And have you done anything about it?! No! So until you do, I WILL NOT BE SINGING!” he roared and marched off the stage for good.

Polnareff groaned miserably, “What do we do now? Is there not a replacement? An understudy?” Bucciarati shook his head, a tight frown on his face, “I’m afraid there is no understudy.”

“I was planning on introducing the Visconte at the gala, but it appears that we will have to cancel!” Polnareff cried as he began erratically pacing around the stage, “We’ll have to refund a full house!”

You gaze longingly at the hopeless scene before you. The other dancers were looking dejectedly at one another, not sure if they would have to cancel their plans for tonight.  _ What if you sang?  _ A voice in your head suggested.  _ The lead role? In such an important play? But you’ve never sang in front of an audience before!  _

You felt someone jabbing you softly in the ribs. You turned to see Narancia staring at you with a peculiar expression: “What if you replaced Prosciutto?” he whispered. “What? No way,” you floundered. “Come on, think about it! You have a really nice voice -- I’ve heard you sing!”

You grappled for a response but could say nothing. Narancia held your shoulders and pushed you forward, “The theatre needs you!” he said it almost jokingly, but his words kept ringing in your mind:  _ The theatre needs you. The theatre needs you. _

You had been training religiously with your mysterious tutor for months now. Once a week you would meet without fail and you would see significant improvement every time. Sometimes he would simply listen to you sing, while others he would nitpick over your technique or stance or breathing pattern. But you felt proud of your accomplishments and almost  _ confident _ in your skills. You pondered the question again:  _ What if you sang? _

“Excuse me, Monsieur, I could sing it.” you piped up. Polnareff and Bucciarati turned to look at you in astonishment. “Oh,  _ ma belle _ , I know you feel compelled to help but you really don’t have to--”

“I mean it, Monsieur. I have been attending lessons with a tutor.”

“What is their name?” Bucciarati chimed in. You blanched, “I-I don’t know his name, Signore.” You felt the weight of a hand on your shoulder and realized that Narancia had bounded up behind you, “Give them a chance, Bucciarati! They have a really good singing voice!”

Polnareff silenced him with a wave of his hand, “Alright, alright… let’s hear it. But this is doing nothing for my nerves.”

You stepped cautiously up to the front of the stage. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. You straightened your back and raised your chin high to convince yourself that you were confident. Bucciarati gave the cue to the Maestro to start the music. Soft piano notes floated up into the air as you began to sing.

_ Think of me, think of me fondly when we’ve said goodbye, _

_ Remember me, once in a while, please promise me you’ll try. _

_ Then you’ll find that once again you long to take your heart back and be free, _

_ If you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me. _

* * *

The orchestra soared, your overjoyed smile glittered under the bright lights of the stage. You stood before the fully-packed theatre in a gorgeous white outfit beaded with tiny jewels that caught the light of the grand chandelier above and practically made you glow. Sparkling stars adorned your hair and face. In that moment, everything was positively  _ perfect _ .

_ We never said our love was evergreen or as unchanging as the sea, _

_ But if you can still remember _

_ Stop and think of me. _

Giorno watched you from a private box above the theatre. He was mesmerized, to put it lightly. He felt drawn to you in a strange way, like he already knew you. Then it hit him: the starry-eyed child, his best friend growing up in a small town in the Italian countryside was none other than you. He wondered briefly if you had recognized him as he got up from his seat and headed downstairs to the theatre’s lobby.

_ Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade, _

_ They have their season, so do we _

_ But please promise me that sometimes, _

_ You will think…  _

The music slowed and the entire theatre held its breath.

_ \--Of me! _

The audience erupted in applause and you bowed deeply, grinning giddily despite yourself. Flower petals rained on the stage and white roses were thrown at your feet. You felt on top of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs that the reader sings in this chapter is Music of the Night and Think of Me respectively, both from the Phantom of the Opera OST. 
> 
> Some more translations:  
> mio fiore - my flower  
> excusez moi - excuse me  
> visconte - viscount  
> magnifique - magnificent  
> seguimi - follow me(?)  
> sì - yes  
> ma belle - beautiful


	3. Angel of Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Phantom is finally revealed! I was very excited about writing this scene and was inspired by e-lectroma's art of Phantom!Diavolo for his appearance.

“Hey, superstar!” Narancia’s voice startled you and you turned to see him bounding down the hallway towards you, “You were incredible out there! How do you feel?”

“A little dazed, actually. I still can’t believe I got to play the leading role,” you laughed. The performance of _Hannibal_ was over, and it had been a major success. The curtain had closed on a standing ovation and you couldn’t be happier. Narancia grinned, “I’m so happy for you, _amico!_ I gotta go change out of this costume, but Mista told me that the gang is going to get together and throw an afterparty downtown at the usual spot, so if you wanna tag along, let me know!” By ‘the gang’, Narancia meant the other dancers, singers and stagehands he was friends with, as performers and staff at the Opera Napoli tended to stick together in friend groups or loose cliques. One example was the gang of stagehands who had been dubbed ‘La Squadra’ -- They were the one you had been wary of when you first arrived. Narancia’s friends included fellow dancers Mista, Fugo and backstage director Leone Abbacchio.

“Alright, I’ll think about it,” you smiled at the brunet as you turned to leave. “Hey, before you go--” he called, “you never told me your secret! How is your voice _that_ good? Who’s your teacher?” You froze, hesitating before answering, “I… I know this might sound crazy, but I think it’s the Opera Ghost.”

Narancia gave you a weird look, “What? No way! I thought the Opera Ghost haunted the opera house and messed around with props, not… taught people to sing.”

You held your hands up defensively, “I know, that’s why it sounds crazy, but there’s no other explanation! I’ve never seen his face and don’t know his name.” Narancia pondered that for a second, then replied, “You sure you weren’t dreaming or something?” You shook your head in response.

“‘Kay… well, I’ll see you at that afterparty!” He had bounced back to his cheerful self in a split second, giving you a little wave before disappearing down the hallway. You waved back, but he was already gone.

You made it to your new dressing room just before the doors to the theatre opened and a flood of patrons came pouring out. You turned to face the room and your jaw almost hit the floor.

There were flowers _everywhere_ . Piled on every surface, blooms of every shape, size and colour were displayed, each bouquet had a card or tag addressed to _you_ , the star of the show. The perfume of all the flowers made the room smell like heaven. You took a moment to wander through the room, examining each one.

Then, you noticed something different among the flowers. On a small table next to the ornate vanity sat a single red rose, red as fresh blood or violent flames, and tied around the stem was a black ribbon in a bow. You held it up, carefully, as if it might fall apart in your hands. You would be a fool to not know who it was from. You glanced around the room again. So many gifts, much more elaborate than this single rose, but somehow none could compare. 

Despite his sour attitude, mysterious aura and intimidating appearance (or lack thereof) you were completely enamoured by the Phantom. It was such a strangely intimate gesture, and you couldn’t help but feel that this was his way of saying he was proud of you. 

As you stripped off the layers of your elaborate costume, you found yourself thinking back to those moments, your singing lessons with the Phantom. Most of the time it was strictly business -- he would teach you to sing and then you would leave. But there was this unspoken tension between you two. The way he spoke to you, the way his touch -- no matter how small or gentle -- would sear your skin. You craved it. Those moments when he was so close yet so far away, they lit a flame deep inside you.

Just as you finished wiping off your heavy costume makeup, there was a knock at your door. You shouted a quick ‘Come in!’ and the door opened. Standing behind it was the Visconte, smiling warmly in his dashing lilac-coloured suit. “Visconte Giovanna,” you greeted him, “To what do I owe the honour?”

“Please, call me Giorno,” he replied. “I didn’t think there was anyone here I previously knew. I didn’t realize it until I saw you on stage, but I suppose it has been a long time since we spent our childhood in Sardinia…” he smirked playfully. _Wait,_ you thought, _He knew you?_ You wracked your brain for an answer, then it clicked. “H-Haruno!” you cried happily, launching yourself into his arms. “Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you! I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you sooner! I knew something about you seemed familiar. What have you been up to? Well-- I guess I _do_ know what you’re up to, b-but since when have you been a viscount?” you rambled.

Giorno chuckled at your bashfulness, “I’ll explain all of that in due time, but first I’d like to invite you out for dinner.”

“Oh-- I-I don’t know,” you stuttered, pulling away from him. “Come on, don’t be shy, _coccinella_ , I’ll bring my carriage around and we can spend the evening together,” he continued, apparently mistaking your reluctance for coyness. “Really, Giorno, I can’t. My tutor is very strict.” He seemed to realize your insistence then, relinquishing after you promised a rain check on the dinner date.

The second the door closed behind him, the candles in your room fizzed out and a booming voice echoed through the room, “ _Insolent boy!_ That sniveling little brat! Encroaching on _my_ territory!” It was the unmistakable voice of the Phantom, and he sounded absolutely furious. You whirled around but soon realized he was nowhere in the room. His voice came from everywhere. “What a brave young suitor, hm? He really thinks he can steal you away with a few sweet words?” the Phantom snarled.

“No, Giorno is only my friend,” you pleaded to the empty room, “His intentions are nothing like that.”

“It seems you are still naive, _mio fiore_ ,” the Phantom replied, “after all I have done for you--”

“I have listened to everything you’ve taught me without question! I still don’t even know who you are,” you argued, “Please, Phantom, I just want to see the face of the man who has helped me all this time.”

There was a long moment of silence, and you began to fear that he had left entirely. Then, his voice returned: “Look in the mirror, _bambino_. I am there.”

You whirled around to face the wall-length mirror on the opposite end of the room, and sure enough you could see the faint image of someone standing there. For a moment you thought he was standing behind you in the room, but soon realized that he was _behind_ the mirror. You took a tentative step forward and there was a sudden _ka-chunk!_ As the mirror began to slide out of place, revealing a hidden passageway behind it. All you could see was pitch darkness and a set of stone steps descending down into it. Blocking the way however, was a man. As the false mirror finally came to a stop, you came face-to-face with the Phantom of the Opera.

You were right about him being tall, as he was well over six feet in height. His shoulders were broad, even more so with the heavy black cloak he wore. His clothes looked old-fashioned, and almost theatrical enough to be a costume someone would wear during one of the opera’s performances. He wore a white dress shirt and bowtie, with a black vest and overcoat. It looked like he was dressed for a formal occasion, save for his trousers and tall leather boots. He was not wearing his leather gloves, which revealed pointed black nails on his fingers. A wide-brimmed black hat shadowed his face with pale feathers of some unknown bird on top.

What caught your attention however, was his face. Covering the right side was a white mask, white as bone. Facial features had been carved into it, suggesting a smile, but the Phantom simply grinned sinisterly at you. His face was thin and pointed with high, well-defined cheekbones. Framing his face was vibrant magenta hair that spilled onto his shoulders. He had a large nose and sharp eyes that you found unable to look away from. They were the brightest green you had ever seen in your life, and they seemed to stare into your very soul.

“Come to me, _angelo mio,_ ” he crooned. You found yourself walking towards him without even thinking. His voice was a dark spell, commanding your body but not your mind. “Come to me, _angelo della musica,_ ” Your eyelids fluttered, but you continued on as if in a trance. There was the sound of his cloak fluttering in the air and your vision turned to blackness. It took you a second to realize he had draped his arm over your shoulder and was now guiding you into the dark passageway behind the mirror.

This time, your vision faded for real.

* * *

You kept blinking in and out of consciousness. You remember the stone steps and the slow descent into darkness, then a long hallway lined with candles that seemed to sway and move on their own. Then, a wooden door opened and you were guided out into a much larger space made of damp stone bricks and the cold, wet air that blew in from outside. You realized that this was the gutter of the opera house, the hidden labyrinth underneath the old building that most likely led to the sewers. 

Next thing you knew you were on a boat, with the Phantom rowing you through the candlelit, subterranean canals of Napoli. You came to a stop at a wooden platform and docked the boat, where the Phantom hopped off with surprising grace. He turned back to you, grabbing under your arms and hauling you onto the dock. The closeness made your head spin even more than it already was. You could smell a faint hint of cologne as well as dust and ozone. He kept you close as the two of you continued deeper into the labyrinth under the Naples Opera House.

Past a secluded stone archway, you saw a sizable hole that had been knocked out of the stone wall and covered up by a large piece of tarp. The Phantom swept it back with his arm and allowed you to step through. On the other side was your destination -- the Phantom’s lair.

It appeared to be an old studio, now filled with refurbished pieces of furniture that the Phantom must have gathered from the Opera House or wherever else he travelled. The area space was lit up by candles, with a well-loved organ sitting in the corner alongside a writing desk overflowing with papers and books. There were dusty rugs covering the cement floor as well as some old sitting chairs near the center of the room.

Moth-eaten velvet curtains separated the bedroom from the rest of the lair, and from what you could see the bed was just a large prop seashell that had been flipped over and stuffed with blankets and pillows. In the opposite corner was a pile of unused furniture that had been covered by more velvet curtains. The most notable -- as you could see it sticking out from the bottom of the pile -- was a tall, wall-length mirror.

“Finally, _mio fiore_ , I have you,” the Phantom practically growled, pulling your attention away from the room and to the tall figure looming over you. He searched your face, letting out a low hum. “Would you do me the honour of singing just one song? I want to hear your sweet voice,” he continued. Your knees felt weak and you could only nod. He took a few steps away from you to sit down in the chair at the writing desk, watching intently with a gaze that you could only describe as predatory. Meekly, you began to sing:

_Dancing bears, painted wings_

_Things I almost remember_

_And a song, someone sings_

_Once upon a December._

You noticed the Phantom lean forward in his seat, his expression of deadly focus fading. You could see the glimpse of wonder and awe in his eyes. With a boost of confidence, you kept going.

_Far away, long ago,_

_Glowing dim as an ember_

_Things my heart used to know,_

_Things it yearns to remember._

_And a song, someone sings_

_Once upon a December._

You heard slow applause from across the room. The Phantom was clapping, a devious smirk back on his face, “ _Brava, bravissima,_ you truly have a talent, little songbird.” he applauded you. You shifted your gaze to the floor and muttered a shy ‘thank you’ under your breath. When you looked up again, the Phantom was standing in front of you, staring down at you with striking, jade-green eyes.

“I have a question, if you don’t mind,” you said. He raised a suspicious eyebrow “What is it?”

“How did you find this place?”

  
  


The Phantom huffed, “I have lived here for many years. It could be said that I practically _built_ this opera house. This is simply a convenient place out of sight from the rabble of the world where I can work in peace.” He explained, gesturing around the room. You narrowed your eyes, thinking hard on what he meant. It irked you that the Phantom spoke in such cryptic words, making you feel like there was a deeper meaning to what he said.

“You must be tired,” he continued, and as if on cue, you found that you were indeed getting drowsy, your eyelids fluttering slightly, “There is just one last thing I want to show you.”

He led you over to the opposite corner of the room, where more old curtains were hanging. In a small alcove out of sight of your view from the entrance, was a mannequin. It had your hair and body, wearing an intricate wedding gown and embroidered veil. For a moment you thought it was your own face, smiling softly, staring back at you. The confusion and shock was overwhelming.

You took one look at it and fainted, falling right into the Phantom’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure a lot of you recognized it, but the song that the reader sings in this chapter is Once Upon A December from Anastasia! I just thought it fit really well
> 
> translations:  
> amico - friend  
> coccinella - ladybug  
> mio fiore - my flower  
> bambino - child  
> angelo mio - my angel  
> angelo della musica - angel of music(?)  
> brava - good  
> bravissima - very good


	4. I Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to upload this chapter within a week of the last one, but it ended up being two weeks. Sorry about that! :(

When you awoke, it was dark and the walls were made of stone. A shadow had been cast over you from the black canopy hanging over the bed. moody lighting from the candles scattered throughout the room hardly illuminated anything. You sat up and threw the deep burgundy duvet off your body. You were only wearing a comfortable set of underthings and a white dressing gown, which you remembered putting on after the performance last night, but how did you get here?

You tried to recall what you did after going to your dressing room after the show. You remembered having a strange dream, but maybe it was less of a dream than you originally thought. You remembered there was mist, mist floating over a vast glassy lake. There was the dim flicker of candles all around and on the lake there was a boat. And in the boat there was a man…

You parted the curtains separating the bedroom from the rest of the studio. Across the room was the man in question. As soon as you saw him, everything from the previous night came back to you. The Phantom was sitting at the wooden desk, writing something on a sheet of paper in front of him. He turned to look at you and the two of you held eye contact, saying nothing. He had ditched most of his elaborate outfit from last night, only wearing his black trousers and loose-fitting dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing detailed tattoos that climbed up his arms. The mask he still wore, and you couldn’t help but feel like it was some fixed, immovable aspect of his face. Why did he wear it? Was there something he didn’t want you to see?

Eventually, he turned back to his work and you wandered over to stand behind him. You peered over his shoulder as he continued writing and you realized it was sheet music. He would sketch a few notes and play them on the organ next to him until he got it right. You watched, absentmindedly rubbing his shoulders affectionately. Eventually your gaze trailed up to his face, where the mask sat, stark and immovable. His brilliant green eyes were trained and focused on the task at hand, and you gently brushed your knuckles down his uncovered cheek, an impish part of you hoping to distract him. His eyelids immediately fluttered as he leaned into your touch, and for a moment you were surprised by his shamelessness. He had always been stoic and guarded around you before -- a phantom of dubious intentions more than a man, but now you only saw a lovesick boy.

Your gaze stopped at the mask covering the right side of his face and now you found you couldn’t stop staring at it. Your curiosity got the better of you, tentatively grasping the edges of the bone-white mask. In a moment of courage, you lifted it from his face. For a fraction of a second he just sat there, and you saw the Phantom’s true face -- the next, his eyes shot open with realization and you were shoved backwards and onto the floor.

“ _Cretino!_ ” he roared, curled over with his face in his hands as if he’d been burnt, “ _Vi maledicono!_ You will never be free!” the Phantom shrieked as he stumbled blindly to the pile of abandoned furniture in the corner. You looked on in shocked silence as he ripped the dusty curtains from the full-length mirror and hunched over it to gaze at his disfigured face.

The skin on the right side seemed to be pulled taut, combined with his high cheekbones made his head look like a skull. Across it were red lesions and patches of discoloured skin like wine stains across his face. He almost looked undead -- but that wasn’t what scared you.

“Is this what you wanted to see?” he demanded, his voice hoarse. He looked back at you. He looked _unhinged_ \-- that was the only word to describe it. You lay there on the ground, hot tears threatening to spill from your eyes. You shook your head vehemently, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know--”

As soon as you said that, the Phantom’s expression dropped and something in his eyes shifted from anger to guilt. “However… hate can turn to love, you know,” he said after a long silence. 

“I don’t hate you,” you whimpered from the floor.

“You will learn to see the man behind this monster, this… _repulsive carcass_ ,” he continued. You shook your head, wanting desperately to tell him _no, that wasn’t the case at all,_ but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak. “Oh, _mio fiore…_ ” he huffed, almost mournfully, as he kneeled down beside you. By now, you had pulled yourself up off the ground and were now sitting on the stone floor.

You glanced down at the floor to see the Phantom’s mask sitting in front of you. Gingerly, you picked it up and held it out to him. Just as carefully, he took it from you and turned away to secure it back on his face.

  
  


For a moment, the Phantom looked as if he was going to say something more to you, but instead: “I should bring you back. Come, the fools running my opera house will soon notice your absence.”

* * *

By the time you were back above ground, it was almost noon. The Phantom guided you back through the passageway behind the mirror. The dressing room was exactly as you had left it. You turned back to the false mirror to say goodbye, but the Phantom had already turned away and the mirror slid back into place. 

You snuck back to the dormitories, not wanting to be seen in only a dressing gown. You got in unnoticed and changed your clothes from the box of belongings you kept under your bed. Just then, you heard someone enter the room and turned to see Narancia standing in the doorway.

“Hey! You didn’t come to the party last night, where were you?” he asked. “Oh, I went straight to sleep.” you lied. Narancia seemed to buy it and laughed raucously.

“Oh man, you should’ve been there! It was wild! Mista fell off the balcony of the bar.” Narancia’s laughter was contagious and soon you were smiling too, despite your anxiousness. “Say, I ran into that Giorno guy last night and he kept asking about you.”

“Oh?” you asked nervously.

“Yeah,” he continued, his smile morphing into a teasing smirk, “I think the _visconte_ has a crush on you.” You huffed as Narancia jokingly batted his eyelashes at you. “I should go talk to him and apologize for not telling him where I was last night,” you sighed.

You waved goodbye to Narancia as you left the room and wandered out to the foyer of the theater.

The foyer greeted you with white pillars decorated with gold and elaborate filigree that lined the dome ceiling. The many columns blocked the room from view, but around the corner you could hear the voice of Signore Bucciarati coming from the grand staircase. He sounded… tense?

“This is quite an unfortunate turn of events. And with our upcoming performance of _Il Muto_ too…”

You rounded the corner and spotted Bucciarati standing on the staircase with two other men who you vaguely recognized. The brunet’s brow was furrowed in worry. “Signore Bucciarati, good morning,” you called from the top of the staircase.

He turned to you and his expression softened slightly. He beckoned you to join him and gestured to the two strange men standing beside him, “Unfortunately Monsieur Polnareff has fallen ill, so the management of the theater has fallen to his good friends, Signores Tiziano and Squalo, who have amassed quite a fortune in the junk business.”

“Scrap metal, actually,” Squalo chimed in.

“I will be making the announcement to the rest of the performers later today.” Bucciarati continued. Tiziano then turned to you, “We were watching the performance last night, you were incredible.” You beamed at the compliment, “Thank you signore, but it was nothing special, I only filled in as a replacement.” 

The new managers said goodbye and headed up the stairs into the theatre, and you were left with Bucciarati. “Signore Bucciarati, you wouldn’t happen to know where Viscount Giovanna is, would you?” Bucciarati did not reply, only looked over your shoulder and a teasing smirk came over his face, “I’d say he’s right there,” he said, pointing.

You whirled around and came face-to-face with Giorno. He was smiling almost impishly down at you and when you squeaked in surprise, his smirk only widened. He called your name, breaking you out of your trance. “I would like to speak with you. Please, follow me.” The blond took you by the hand and led you down the stairs and onto the front steps of the opera house.

“I’m sorry for disappearing last night, Giorno,” you said. He shook his head in response, “No, no, it’s fine, _coccinella._ I wanted to make it up to you. Would you like to accompany me on some outings this afternoon? I hear there are some lovely gardens here in Naples that I would love to show you.”

Blushing despite yourself, you nodded, “I’d love to, Giorno.”

Again, he took you by the hand and led you down the steps where his carriage was parked. He held the door open as you stepped inside and got in behind you. The carriage pulled out of the courtyard, unaware of the dark figure watching from the rooftops.

* * *

You peered out the window as the carriage rolled down the bumpy cobble streets. 

“Oh, I recognize this street,” you thought aloud, “There’s a cemetery nearby; my family has a tomb there. It’s where all my relatives are buried.”

“My family-- well, my father’s family -- is English, so most of his relatives live there, but we are also Italian.” Giorno replied. “You never did tell me how you became a viscount. When we were kids you just lived with your mother and her husband.”

“I suppose I do owe you an explanation, don’t I?” he paused, “I always knew that my real father was out there somewhere… my mother never talked about him. Then… when I was about fifteen, he found out about me and took me in. I still see my mother occasionally, but we never really got along…”

“What is it like? Living with your father and his family?”

Giorno chuckled, “Interesting, I suppose. We are quite eccentric. There’s me, my father Dio, my three half-brothers and Diego, who technically my… first cousin once removed, but he’s more like an uncle to us all.”

You found yourself giggling along with him. Soon, Giorno turned to you, “What about you? What’s your family like?”

You glanced down at the carpeted floor of the carriage, “Ordinary. I moved away a few years ago to start a career for myself. My family has always been involved in the arts; singing, dancing, music…”

“Well, you’re certainly doing a proud job of carrying on the tradition,” he replied.

You chuckled bashfully, finding your cheeks growing warm under his gaze.

“Thank you… Giorno.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:  
> cretino: idiot  
> vi maledicono: curse you(?)  
> mio fiore: my flower  
> visconte: viscount  
> coccinella: ladybug


	5. Prima Donna

When Squalo arrived at his office the next morning, there was a note sitting on his desk. It was in a plain white envelope with no address or name on the back. It was sealed with red ink, and stamped into it was the shape of an arrowhead.

“Tiziano!” the ginger called, frantically descending the stairs, “Look at this!” his partner, who met him at the bottom of the stairs, sighed in frustration when he spotted the envelope in Squalo’s hands. “First Prosciutto’s resignation and now this? What a way to run a business…”

Ignoring him, Squalo tore open the envelope and quickly unfolded the note. He was quiet for a moment as he read the letter to himself, then his eyebrows furrowed. “What? What is it?” Tiziano asked, leaning over the other’s shoulder. The letter read:

_ Dear Replacement Managers, _

_ I welcome you to my opera house. A few reminders if you have not already been informed: Firstly, Box 5 must be kept empty at all times for my personal use. Additionally, my salary is overdue. Monsieur Polnareff, before his untimely departure, had capped my monthly due at 5,050 lire, but perhaps with your recent good fortune you could afford more. _

_ \-- O.G. _

_ P.S. No one likes a debtor, so it would be in your best interest that my orders are obeyed. _

“Who would have the gall to send this?!” Squalo cried. “Surely this is some kind of joke,” Tiziano reasoned, “‘O.G.’ could only stand for ‘Opera Ghost’... but that’s just a myth.”

“Whoever he is, he’s being quite a pain,” Squalo grumbled, staring bitterly down at the letter.

Just then, the two were interrupted by the front doors swinging open. A flash of blond hair emerged from the crowd waiting outside the entrance. The viscount Giovanna strode into the foyer, clutching an unmarked envelope in his hand, “Where are they?” he asked the managers frantically. 

“You mean Signore Guidicelli?” Tiziano replied. 

“No, your new soprano, where are they?” 

“How should we know?” Tiziano and Squalo said in unison.

“You sent me this note, did you not?” Giorno demanded, holding out the envelope in his hand. Tiziano snatched it from him, noting briefly that it was the same white envelope that Squalo had received, with the same red wax seal. He took the note out and read aloud:

_ Do not fear for your ingenue, the Angel of Music has them under his wing. Make no attempt to see them again. _

This time, the letter was not signed. Tiziano looked up from the paper at Giorno, “Well, if they’re not with you, then--”

“Where is he?!” A furious voice called out from the entrance. All three men looked up to see Prosciutto Guidicelli storm through the front doors, headed right in their direction. “I demand to know why you sent me this letter, Viscount Giovanna!”

“What letter, Signore?” Giorno inquired, still polite as ever. He took the white envelope Prosciutto was holding, “I cannot remember ever sending you a letter.”

“Perhaps reading it will refresh your memory,” the man snapped, gesturing to the envelope. Carefully, Giorno took the letter out and read it before the group:

_ Signore Guidicelli, _

_ Your days at the Opera Napoli are numbered. A new soprano will be singing on your behalf henceforth. Prepare for a great misfortune should you attempt to take their place. _

The four men shared a look of unease. Never in the history of the Naples Opera House had such a strange and frightening thing occurred, but no one could say that aloud. The first performance of  _ Il Muto _ was that very night and everything needed to be running smoothly. Tiziano gently nudged Squalo and plastered an easy grin on his face.

“Far too many notes for my taste,” he drawled, leading an annoyed Prosciutto up the stairs and away from Giorno, who was still holding the letter. “All we’ve heard about since we arrived was the same singer -- if you could even call them that,” Squalo continued, “but now that you’re back, Signore Guidicelli--”

“I’m afraid they’ve disappeared,” Came a voice from across the room. All four turned to see Bucciarati and Narancia standing at the bottom of the stairs. “I came out here to search for them, but if they’re not here with you, then I’m afraid they’ve vanished.”

“What do you mean, they’ve vanished?!”

“Here, I found a note.” Bucciarati held out yet another plain whit envelope with a red seal containing the shape of an arrowhead. Tiziano was the first to make it down the stairs and take the letter from the brunet’s hand. He cracked open the seal and read it before the waiting crowd:

_ Gentlemen,  _

_ I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theatre is to be run. Thus far, you have not followed my simple instructions, but I will give you one last chance. Your soprano will return in time for tonight’s performance and I am anxious to see their career progress. In the production of Il Muto, Prosciutto will be cast as the pageboy, putting the new star of the Opera Napoli in the role of the Count.  _

_ This role calls for charm and appeal, while the role of the pageboy is silent, making my casting -- in a word -- ideal. I shall watch the performance from my seat in Box 5, which as you should remember, is to be kept open for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. _

_ I remain forever your obedient servant, _

_ \-- O.G. _

“This is insane!” cried a furious Prosciutto, “This is clearly orchestrated by the Visconte, their lover.”

“That is utter nonsense,” Giorno refuted. Prosciutto ignored him and turned to Tiziano and Squalo, “I must be frank with you; I have lost all patience with this establishment. If you cast a  _ rookie  _ to play the lead role over a silly letter then I will never sing at the Opera Napoli again!” he announced. 

“Signore, please wait!” Tiziano called after him as he began to descend the stairs. “I can assure you we don’t take orders,” Squalo continued. 

“You are the star of our theatre!” someone else called out.

“Wouldn’t you rather have your precious little  _ ingenue _ ?” Prosciutto sneered. “Of course not,” Tiziano and Squalo replied in unison, “The… ingenue will play the role of the pageboy. The silent role.” This seemed to please the blond considerably. “And Prosciutto will be playing the lead.”

* * *

With a heavy sigh, you plopped down on one of the wooden chairs next to the stage. You had been rehearsing all morning and you were, frankly, exhausted. You had been picked for the role of the pageboy which you were a little disappointed about. You had hoped that you would get to sing again, but decided to do your best nevertheless. 

Your gaze travelled across the crowded backstage area. The hallway to your right was nearly blocked off with boxes and abandoned props, hiding the unassuming wooden door to your secret room from sight.

You were so lost in thought that you almost missed it, but spotted a flickering light coming through the crack in the door. Then a shadow swept past it and the light disappeared. You stood slowly from your chair and snuck towards it. You glanced around, making sure no one saw you slip away before diving down behind the boxes and cautiously making an exit through the wooden door.

You felt around with your hands as you descended the stone staircase. It was dark, but you could see a faint light coming from the room below. You realized, when you reached the bottom of the stairs, that one of the candles on the wrought iron candlestick was lit. You looked down the corridors but all was pitch black and there to no sign of anyone else there. 

You went to blow out the candle when you heard a shuffling sound somewhere behind you. You whipped around, holding the candle out in front of you, but still no one was there. Curiously, you took a few cautious steps down the corridor, using the candle to light your way. There was a pause, then more shuffling.

“Hello?” you called, your voice echoing down the shadowy corridor. “I am here,  _ mio fiore _ ,” replied a familiar voice. You sped up, walking briskly down the hall until you came to a stop at a doorway that led into the underground canals. Before you was a familiar dock where a gondola boat was docked and a dark figure standing in it.

“Hello,” you greeted the Phantom, flashing a flustered smile. Most people would be afraid right now, you thought absentmindedly, but he had such a strange effect on you. He looked almost surprised at you, and you briefly wondered how often people smiled at him. 

“I am surprised at you,  _ angelo, _ ” he said once he had regained his composure, “Not many people are able to find me down here -- or detect me at all, for that matter.”

“Why is that?” you asked him suddenly, “What I mean is -- Why are you here? Why do you live in secret under the opera house? You never did explain that to me.”

The Phantom huffed, shaking his head at you almost as if he was scolding a child, “Your tenacity is impressive,  _ angelo mio,  _ but there are some truths that must never be revealed.”

“Can you at least tell me your name?” you urged him.

This caused the Phantom to pause, and he turned his face away so the tall collar of his black cloak obstructed his face from view. He made a dissatisfied grunt and finally relented. 

“It is not my real name, but you can call me  _ Diavolo _ ,” he said. The way the syllables rolled off his tongue made you shiver. “ _ Diavolo… _ ” you echoed. The name suited him somehow, and now you found yourself thinking that there was no other suitable name. In other words, he looked like a Diavolo.

The hint of a self-satisfied smirk flitted over his face before disappearing, “You should head back now. The performance is about to start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooOOOOO BIT OF A CLIFFHANGER
> 
> also i did a ridiculous amount of mathematical gymnastics to figure out how much Diavolo's salary would be ;;;
> 
> translations:  
> ingenue: a young actor/actress or performer, someone who's just starting out  
> mio fiore: my flower  
> angelo: angel  
> angel mio: my angel


	6. All I Ask Of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for this chapter; there are multiple character deaths and descriptions of violence

The curtains rose before a packed auditorium. Giorno sat above in one of the private boxes; Box 5 to be exact. He felt uneasy sitting there, especially after the threatening notes he received that morning. He had a strange fear that he might be caught, like he was impeding on someone else’s territory. The blond tried to push it aside. There was no real threat; the Opera Ghost was just a myth, after all.

Meanwhile, the backstage area was abuzz as the performance had just started. You were putting on the last touches of your costume as you awaited your cue to enter the stage. Done up in a ruffled shirt, striped vest and britches, you anxiously glanced around, spotting Sorbet above in the rafters, as well as Gelato and the others tending to the curtains on the ground. Unbeknownst to you, Sorbet had just noticed something very strange indeed.

He almost missed it in the hustle and bustle, but spotted a peculiar gloved hand reach out and grab the throat spray belonging to Prosciutto, replacing it with a near identical bottle. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but he couldn’t say anything about it now -- the singers were already on stage.

You strode gracefully onto the stage, smiling wide for the crowd just like you’ve done countless times before. The stage was very warm from the spotlights being shone down on it, as well as all the candles lit around the backstage entrances. You were beginning to sweat under the layers of your costume. Your routine didn’t require a lot of movement, but you played your part flawlessly while Prosciutto and the others sang.

**“Did I not instruct that Box 5 was to be kept empty?”** a booming voice called over the crowd, bringing the show to a halt. The music stopped abruptly and the performers around you shared nervous and bewildered looks. The audience chattered in alarm. You looked up and sure enough -- there was Giorno sitting in Box 5, looking back at you with the same startled expression that matched your own.

“Ohmygod! That’s him! That’s the phantom of the opera!” You heard Narancia squeal a few feet away from you. You could not share his excitement.

“He’s here…” you muttered to nobody. Prosciutto, who was standing next to you, glared and pointed his feather-trimmed fan at you; “Your part is silent, _piccolo rospo._ ”

He strode off the stage where his attendant picked up the glass bottle of throat spray. You looked back at Narancia who was grinning at you, but when he saw how frightened you were, his smile dropped. You heard Prosciutto complaining about his attendant spraying his chin as he walked back onto stage, assuming his charming stage persona and calling for the maestro to start the music again.

The show continued, but you could tell the other performers were as uneasy as you were. Then, Prosciutto opened his mouth to sing--

\--And out came a terrible croak. The audience erupted in laughter as you and others desperately tried to keep the show on track. Prosciutto continued to sing, but all that came out were ear-grating croaks. The stage descended into madness. The other dancers backstage were dying with laughter, Prosciutto was now shouting in embarrassment and fury and the audience was in complete disarray. 

You saw Tiziano and Squalo dash down from their private box as you were ushered away and the curtains were quickly closed. The managers rushed out before the audience to make an impromptu announcement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize,” Tiziano spoke in a voice that hid his obvious nervousness, “The… performance will continue in ten minutes time--” you were then grabbed by the arm and hauled out through the curtains in front of the waiting audience. Tiziano announced your name before the crowd, “... will be playing the role of the Count.”

The crowd applauded and you gave the best smile you could manage before being quickly shoved back through the curtains. Bucciarati intercepted you as you struggled to regain your balance, hurrying you along to the dressing rooms.

“Until then, we would crave your indulgence for a few moments. Meanwhile, we would like to give you the ballet from Act 3 of tonight’s opera,” you heard Squalo say, followed by the panicked fumbling of the maestro and the rest of the orchestra.

As you were practically dragged through the backstage halls, you began to get a strange feeling of foreboding in your chest. It was like your body _knew_ something was wrong -- besides the absolute disaster _Il Muto_ had become. You looked up, watching the moody shadows cast by the stage lights shift above you as you went.

Then something moved above you. It was the silhouette of a person moving about in the rafters over the stage. Then there was more movement. You thought that it was the same person, but then you saw the sweep of a black cloak as it turned, and all the pieces clicked together.

You ripped yourself from Bucciarati’s grasp and ran as fast as you could back toward the stage. You didn’t know what you were going to do when you got there, but you just knew you had to listen to the alarm bells going off in your head saying that you _have to get back there right now._

You came to a skidding stop right beside the stage entrance and looked around wildly, searching for the figures above you in the rafters. The ballerinas on stage struggled through their routine and stagehands rushed around you. You finally spotted the two figures above you, standing right over the stage. You squinted -- they weren’t moving. You didn’t know what they were doing. 

As if on cue with the crescendo of the music, the body of Sorbet dropped from the rafters, hung by the neck with a cord of rope. You heard the ballerinas scream and a collective gasp of terror swept through the auditorium as the man’s body convulsed horrifically in the throes of death. He hung there for a few moments before dropping to the ground, followed by the length of rope that had killed him. 

You were nearly bowled over by the performers running off the stage, screaming for a medic. You looked up to the rafters and saw only one figure was left. He turned, and through spaces in the crowd you caught a glimpse of a bone-white mask as Diavolo disappeared from sight.

You whipped your head around, spotting the familiar face of Narancia in the crowd and latched onto his arm as the two of you escaped the furious tide of bodies. Narancia turned away from you and flung open the first door he saw, which ended up being a storage room. There was a beat of silence before his sudden scream of alarm caused you to jump. You turned to see what he was looking at and clapped a face over your mouth to stifle a scream of your own.

The two of you stared down at Gelato’s lifeless body, slumped on the floor.

* * *

Overwhelmed by terror and confusion, you ran. At some point, you lost Narancia, but you kept running. You were in a corridor outside the foyer by this point, scrambling for an exit. You looked over your shoulder for just a moment and collided with something solid. You turned to see the face of Giorno, who was looking down at you as his arms held you upright. 

“What happened during the performance? What’s going on?” he asked, bewildered. You pulled away from him, grabbing his wrist and tugging on it feebly, “We have to leave, Giorno, it isn’t safe here,” you said urgently. You turned and rushed into one of the stairwells with Giorno at your heels. “Where are we going? We must return,” he called after you.

“No, we can’t go back, we have to get away,” you rambled as you clambered up the stairs. “Please explain to me what’s going on!” Giorno called again.

“Two men are dead and I fear you will be next,” you replied with fervour, finally turning to him for a moment before continuing up the stairs. Tears brimmed in your eyes as Giorno followed after you. “Please, _coccinella,_ forget this. You’re panicking,” he assured you as the two of you climbed the stairs to the roof. 

“We can’t keep pretending like nothing’s wrong!” you cried, “The phantom of the opera is here! Among us!”

You burst through the roof entrance and onto the snow-dusted stone. You took deep, heaving breaths of the cold night air as if you had just been underwater. Giorno followed soon after, stepping onto the roof behind you. “My dear, there is no phantom of the opera,” he said softly.

“Giorno, I’ve been there… I’ve seen it with my own eyes. He’s not a ghost, he’s a man who’s been living under the opera house this whole time--”

The blond pulled you into a sudden hug. His arms were wrapped loosely around her shoulders and your cheek was pressed against his chest. “Please,” he whispered into your ear, “Take a moment to breathe, then you can tell me the rest.” You could hear the thinly-veiled tenseness in his voice, but followed his advice. You took a slow, deep breath, and was silent for a moment.

“... He was kind to me,” you said finally, “In his own way. There was… such sadness in his eyes. Part of me doesn’t want to believe what I just saw.”

You sighed deeply, burying your face in Giorno’s chest, “God, what have I gotten myself into,” you muttered, your voice muffled by his coat. “You know I’ll always be here for you, _coccinella,_ ” He replied, “You don’t have to be afraid when I’m around.”

You stepped back and wandered over to the stone railing of the roof, gazing out at the city skyline. “Ever since you came back, it feels like my world has been turned upside down” you murmured. Giorno came up behind you, loosely wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his cheek to the side of your head. Your heart fluttered when you felt his lips press a soft kiss to your temple. 

He turned you around in his arms. The moonlight shone down on his face making him look almost heavenly and his hair like strands of pure gold. Your breath hitched when you realized he was staring at your lips. You both held your breath as you stood up on your toes to press your lips softly to the corner of his mouth. You lingered there, a little too long to be considered innocent before pulling away.

“I think… it will be okay if we head back now,” you muttered, “They’ll wonder where I am.” Giorno smirked at your bashfulness, and together and went hand-in-hand off the roof and down the stairwell.

Only once both of you were gone did the cloaked figure of Diavolo emerge from behind one of the stone statues. He too had retreated to the roof after the death of Sorbet and had heard the entire conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hOOOH THAT WAS ALOT. We're about halfway through the fic now, and in the next chapter is the masquerade scene which is my FAVOURITE!!
> 
> translations:  
> piccolo rospo: little toad  
> coccinella: ladybug


	7. Masquerade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S HEREEEE!!!! Sorry I took so long uploading this chapter, I just wanted to make sure it was perfect ;;;

Snow fell lightly on a cold December night, where the Naples Opera House was alight with activity. Horse-drawn carriages lined the courtyard as droves of people made their way into the building. Twinkling lights shone from inside and fireworks exploded into a myriad of colours above the rooftops. 

It was the annual Masquerade Ball; hosted to celebrate the new year. Hundreds of guests, as well as all the performers and staff of the opera house attended every year. Giorno’s carriage halted outside the courtyard, where the two of you were sitting. You instinctively leaned into him when the carriage jolted forward, and he caught you in his arms.

“We should be able to head inside now. Our driver will find somewhere to park,” the blond said and helped you out the door and onto the cobblestone street. The two of you rushed inside, huddling against each other in the cold. Inside, the foyer was a sea of black and white and gold. The entire room of guests were dressed in an outlandish fusion between stage costumes and formalwear, all completed by stunning Venezian masks that obscured their faces. Some wore luxurious evening gowns and others were dressed as clowns and jesters that danced across the grand staircase. 

You and Giorno had your own costumes as well. You wore a blush pink outfit embroidered with silver thread and beaded with pearls along with frilly white gloves and a matching mask secured on your face. Giorno looked like a prince from an old fairytale in his navy blue suit and shiny epaulettes. His golden hair was braided at the nape of his neck with little stray curls that framed his face.

He took you by the hand and led you onto the floor where you joined the swirling array of bodies as you twirled and danced to the music. The lights were blinding and everything was so loud -- but you couldn’t care less. You just threw your head back and laughed as Giorno spun you across the marble floor.

You spotted Bruno’s shiny black head of hair from across the room. He was standing on the stairs with six other masked figures, five of which you recognized as Narancia, Prosciutto, Risotto, Tiziano and Squalo. The last one you didn’t. You and Giorno squeezed out of the crowded foyer and onto the stairs where you rushed ahead to greet them. 

“Good evening Signore Tiziano, Squalo, Bucciarati,” you said cheerfully. Narancia gave you a wave from over Bruno’s shoulder. All of them were dressed in elaborate costumes that stood out from the crowd (if that was even possible). You noticed that Squalo even had fins like a shark sewn onto his jacket sleeves and pearlescent blue scales that glittered under the many candles lighting up the room. Prosciutto didn’t seem that happy to see you. He still held a bit of a grudge against you for playing the lead role in _Hannibal_ . Ever since _Il Muto_ you returned to dancing for the most part, but still played minor singing roles as well.

“This is quite the magnificent party,” Giorno chimed in. “Indeed,” replied Tiziano, “It’s been such a peaceful three months, and what better way to celebrate a prosperous year than with a ball?”

“I, for one, am thankful that there are no more mysterious notes,” drawled Prosciutto. 

“This party was so highly anticipated that it made regional news!” said Squalo, “There are wealthy guests from all over the country here tonight. What pity that the Phantom can’t be here!” Your smile faltered at his words but you forced yourself to but on a cheerful face.

Narancia squeezed past Bucciarati and the others and rested an elbow on your shoulder, “So, do you think the Phantom’s gone for good?” he asked.

“Well… I don’t know…” you mumbled awkwardly, trying desperately to dodge the question. Bruno noticed your discomfort, “Let’s not talk about this anymore, It's been three months. We’re supposed to be having fun, after all.” A murmur of agreement went through the group. “I should go check on Leone. No doubt the backstage crew are having a party of their own. Please excuse me,” Bruno said and departed from the room. The others dispersed and the sixth man -- the one you didn’t recognize before, dressed entirely in purple -- turned and disappeared up the stairs before you could get a good look at his face. 

You turned back to Giorno who was still standing next to you. 

“Please, come with me. There’s something I need to talk to you about,” he said coolly as he took your hand. You followed him as he led you to the outskirts of the room, near the front doors, out of the way of the busy crowds. 

“What is it, Giorno? What do you have to tell me?” you asked softly. He looked almost nervous, which was a strange new look that you hadn’t seen before. Giorno was always cool and confident. But now he looked almost… embarrassed? There was a pink dusting over his cheeks and his handsome blue eyes were downcast.

“You know that I care about you very much,” he began, “You have been my dearest friend since childhood and you were there for me when I needed you most… but now that we’ve grown up, my feelings for you as a friends have grown into something more and I-- You must know that--”

“Giorno?” your heart fluttered as you realized what he was trying to say.

“I lov--”

Giorno was cut off by a collective shout of alarm that swept through the room. The candles around you flickered violently. The dancing and music came to a delayed halt. The people around you were pointing at something at the top of the stairs. You turned, and what you saw made your blood freeze in your veins. 

There, standing dreadful and triumphant at the top of the stairs was the Phantom of the Opera. His entire outfit was bright crimson and for a moment it looked like he had been doused in blood. From his belt hung a rapier and a long cape trailed from his shoulder. The layered sleeves and squared shoulders of his coat made him look much larger than he really was, and his tall boots and gloves covered any skin from being shown. On his head was a wide-brimmed hat like the one he usually wore, but this one was red and had matching feathers sticking out the top. His striking pink hair was pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. The Phantom, too, was wearing a mask like all the other guests, but his resembled a white skull that covered his entire face, making it impossible to discern even his general face shape. From within the two black eye holes came an unearthly green glow. 

The crowd waited in anxious silence.

“Why so silent, good _messieurs?_ ” The Phantom called over the crowd, his deep voice barely containing what you could only describe as impish _glee,_ “Did you think that I had left you for good?”

“Did you miss me, esteemed opera-goers? Your king has returned, and I have written you an opera.” A hushed gasp came from the crowd as the Phantom produced the music score wrapped in a black leather folder.

“I call it _Don Juan Triumphant!_ ” he bellowed and threw it to the floor. His now empty hand drew the rapier from his belt and held it aloft above the bewildered crowd. “Fondest greetings to you all,” he continued, twirling the blade almost threateningly in his hands as he descended the stairs one by one. His cape trailed behind him like a trail of fresh blood. “Here are my instructions before rehearsals begin;”

You felt Giorno’s hand on the small of your back pull away and you whipped around in paranoid fear. He was still there, but he was slowly backing out of the room, giving you a meaningful look that told you he had a plan. 

“Prosciutto had better get used to acting,” Diavolo was saying, “This is not your normal trick of strutting around the stage.” The blond in question growled with rage and made a move forward, but was held back by Risotto, who the Phantom turned his attention to. “Ah, our Don Juan. Risotto had better quit being such a brainless fool if he wants any hope of embodying _my_ perfect character,” He said sharply, poking the tip of his sword into Risotto’s abdomen. The look in his eyes was downright _murderous._ You were ready for Risotto to just drop the pretenses and tackle the man. 

Diavolo then turned away and set his gaze on Tiziano and Squalo, who were huddling next to each other. “My managers must learn that their place is in an office--” he swung his rapier to point at their faces, causing the two to flinch, “--not the arts.”

The Phantom slowly withdrew his blade, satisfied that the two had gotten the point. He slipped the rapier back in the sheath. You gulped, realizing that as he turned his body that his next target would be you. You sensed that same presence that you did the day you first encountered him in the storage room, or when he showed himself to you in the mirror. You felt his gaze on you before he even turned his eyes.

“As for our star…” he practically purred, in that voice that made your knees weak and mouth run dry in anticipation. “They will do they’re best, I’m sure,” he hissed, stepping closer to the bottom of the stairs, “But should they wish to excel, they still have much to learn.”

You realized then, what he was doing. He was trying to intimidate you. Your stomach flipped at the thought of having to confront him head on, but your better judgement quelled your fear. You wouldn’t let this be some sick power trip for him. You truly cared for Diavolo, but in this case, a little bit of tough love was in order. _Today he will learn,_ you thought. _Today he will learn that I am his equal._

You stepped closer, squaring your shoulders and staring back at his glowing green eyes.

“If pride will let them return to me-- their teacher,” you noticed Bucciarati and the others giving you weird looks out of the corner of your eye; somewhere between accusatory, confusion and alarm. You were sort of surprised they didn’t believe you earlier. 

Diavolo’s gaze softened, and he shifted in place like he was about to say something. You edged closer to the bottom of the stairs; a magnetic pull drawing you together. You were now standing only a few inches apart, staring into each other’s eyes with a sense of mutual hurt and longing. The entire room -- no, the world -- was silent. Everything narrowed down to just the two of you.

The masked man’s face switched in an instant to one of anger and you jumped as he leaned in close to your face, “You have forgotten, foolish child. **You belong to me!** ” He hissed. You gawked in horror and confusion, unable to make a retort as the Phantom whirled around and dashed up the stairs, making his way to the platform in the middle. He turned, giving you one last pointed look before the floor opened beneath him and he disappeared in a cloud of red smoke.

The crowd screamed in dismay. You tore your eyes from the newly-discovered trapdoor to see Giorno, sword in hand, rushing down the stairs with his eyes set on the platform. He was about to jump in when the mysterious purple-clad man came out of nowhere and pulled him away just in time as the trapdoor shut again.

  
  


* * *

You learned very quickly that the man’s name was Doppio. He was a bit skittish and kept glancing around nervously wherever he went, giving you the impression that he was guilty of something. You sat down in the manager’s office along with Giorno, Bruno and Narancia -- Tiziano and Squalo hovered by the door. The tension in the room could be cut with a knife.

“You said that you were an old friend of the Phantom...?” you reminded him, and the boy was startled from his thoughts, “y-yes,” he replied, “I think you all should hear the whole story…”

Doppio took a deep, weary breath, and began, “We grew up together in Sardinia. Neither of us knew our real parents, and I still believe we might be brothers. We were raised by a kind old priest who ran the local church. I never saw him much… he was always shut away in his room because he was ashamed of his face. He spent his days learning musical theory, history, science… and who knows what else. Then… there was a fire in the church. The priest died, and we were left to fend for ourselves on the streets.”

“At some point we were picked up by a travelling circus… it saw more like a freakshow, actually. They hosted anyone who looked or acted different and displayed them like animals to gawk at. My job was to clean up, do chores and run errands, mostly, but he was kept as one of their ‘exhibits’ because of his face. I still remember the sign they hung over his cage… _‘Il Figlio del Diavolo’_ ; the devil’s child. Eventually, everyone just shortened it and started calling him Diavolo.”

“Do you know his real name?” Giorno asked. Doppio opened his mouth to answer but nothing came out. You could see the gears turning in his head as he realized he didn’t know, “I… I don’t remember,” he squeaked pathetically.

Doppio then continued with the story, “Years later, we had to be about sixteen or seventeen, he was able to strangle a gatekeeper and escape. He took me with him… for a while. We ended up in Naples, where we overheard plans for major renovations happening here, at the Opera Napoli. He said he was going to join the construction team and build a place for himself here.”

“W-What do you mean ‘build a place for himself here’?” you asked anxiously. Doppio shrugged, “He probably altered the blueprints to make a hidden room that he could live out of or something. He was clever like that.”

You thought back to the secret passage behind the mirror and the trapdoor on the grand staircase. The studio in the canals, your secret room under the backstage area, the labyrinth of hidden tunnels under the opera house. All the pieces fell into place. Diavolo had an entire network of passageways; a whole other opera house that no one else knew about except for him. It was how he was able to conveniently appear and disappear, like a ghost. It was all by his design. _‘It could be said that I practically built this opera house’,_ echoed Diavolo’s words in your mind.

“How did you find out that he was here?” Bucciarati chimed in. Doppio blinked, “From the manager… Polnareff. I met him while he was in the hospital, apparently he’s known about him for a long time.”

Doppio’s expression dropped and he held his head in his hands, “He may be a murderer, but he’s my brother. You should see his work; he’s a prodigy… a genius. Had he been born somewhere else, he might have been worshipped the world over for his gift in music.”

You stood suddenly, feeling slightly dizzy from all these shocking revelations. “Please excuse me,” you said softly, “I need to get some air.” You patted Doppio’s shoulder sympathetically and left.

* * *

The wind blowing over the roof ruffled from hair, but you didn’t pay it much mind. You sighed deeply and watched the cloud of your breath dissipate on the cool night air. As you stared out at the silhouette of Napoli below, you knew. You knew that you would be the one to end this string of tragedies once and for all. Inside the opera house, a storm was on the horizon. This was it.

You were pulled from your thoughts by the familiar rustle of a black cloak and the feeling of the Phantom’s eyes on the back of your head.

He simply called out your name, and said nothing more. 

“Why are you here?” you called out, bravely as you could muster. “Have the lot of you made your decision about performing my opera?” he replied. You huffed, the cloud of vapour looking to you more like smoke coming from a dragon’s nose. You gripped the stone banister. _This was it._

“We’ll do it. We’ll perform your work,” you said bitterly, “And I will be playing the lead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rubs grubby lil hands together* here we go boyes
> 
> also i added in that part about risotto literally holding himself back from curb-stomping diavolo because we all know that no matter the circumstances, risotto could absolutely rock diavolo's shit. he's just not doing it for the plot.
> 
> translations:  
> messieurs: gentlemen  
> il figlio del diavolo: the devil's child


	8. Wandering Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAA THIS CHAPTER TOOK SO LONG TO FINISH!!! I just started a new job so I'm pretty busy right now, if the next chapter isn't uploaded for a while don't be surprised. Anyway, here's the graveyard swordfight scene.

You watched the courtyard from the marble steps of the Opera Napoli. It was a damp and overcast day that made everything and everyone feel more gloomy. You watched the police squad march across the courtyard in their navy blue overcoats and rifles. Ever since the incident at the masquerade, there had been a huge upgrade in security. Guards patrolled the corridors of the opera house and watched over the performers as they rehearsed. Still, the Phantom was all anyone ever talked about. He had effectively terrified the entire building.

Turning back inside, you spotted Giorno and the managers, Tiziano and Squalo. Hanging back but listening to the conversation was Bucciarati, Narancia, Prosciutto and his entourage. Giorno looked up and spotted you, beckoning you over.

“Ah, _coccinella,_ just the person I was looking for,” he said.

“Hey! I haven’t seen you since the masquerade!” Narancia called over the others’ heads, “What even happened? Why did you agree to perform that guy’s opera, anyway?”

“I don’t know, it just seemed like the only choice I had,” you shrugged. “No,” Giorno said, “I have a plan and accepting his demands is the first step.”

“We’re listening,” said Tiziano and Squalo in unison.

“We shall play his game. Follow his demands but remember that we hold the ace,” the blond explained, “For if you sing--” he glanced over at you, “--he is certain to attend.”

“Then we’ll be certain the doors are barred and the police are there,” concluded Tiziano.

“We’ll be certain they’re armed.”

Giorno nodded, “When the curtain falls, his reign will end.”

* * *

Giorno found you in your secret room a few minutes later. You had stepped away to get some alone time and process everything, but he had gotten worried and came down to check on you. He hovered in the doorway, looking almost breathlessly at you as you sat on the stone floor in front of the single burning candle 

Finally, you turned to look at him, “Giorno, I’m frightened,” you blurted, “What if this doesn’t go the way we want it to?”

“It will. We have carefully thought out this plan,” he replied.

You paused, looking down at the stone floor. “Do you really intend to kill him?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

“If it comes to that.”

You leaned forward, resting your forehead on your palms. “He… he has control over the entire opera house. He already knows what we’re planning, I can feel it.”

You felt Giorno’s finger lift your chin up to meet his eyes where he gave you a soft yet meaningful kind of look, “You said it yourself; he’s just a man.”

The blond helped you to your feet where you wandered over the sit on the window sill next to the large stained glass window.

“I almost feel like I’m betraying him…” you confessed, “As strange as it sounds, I care for him.” Giorno rested his hand gently on yours, seeing your distress.

“I understand that you have your reservations, and that you’re frightened, but all our hopes rest on you now,” Giorno said softly, and pulled you into a hug.

* * *

In your best mourning clothes, you went out to the stables of the opera house. As the day went on it had only gotten colder, and now fog covered the courtyard and the world beyond. In light of recent events, you figured it was high time to pay a visit to your family tomb. 

You paid the carriage driver and you were off, thundering down the foggy streets of Naples. You drove out of town, to the old cemetery right on the borders of the city. The carriage stopped outside by the massive fence, where you got out and pushed open the tall wrought iron gate. It was deathly quiet as you stepped into the graveyard, making your footsteps seem much louder as you wandered through the rows of grey headstones. Statues of angels kneeled over graves and stone figures stood faceless in the gloom. Everything was dusted in snow. 

Past the pillars and dead trees, at the end of the uneven stone walkway was the entrance to your family tomb. A low stone building with two heavy doors with your surname engraved above it. You sat down at the bottom of the steps leading to the mausoleum, unable to walk anymore. 

You sighed heavily for the umpteenth time in the late couple days, watching your breath condensate in the cold air. You stared up at the doors of the tomb, willing them to open to give you advice, directions, _anything_ \-- but only silence answered. Just then, a heavy gust of wind blew through the cemetery, biting at your cheek and casting a flurry of white snow to blur the world around you. You ducked your head until it passed, and when you looked up, you spotted a warm glow through the fog.

The light was coming from inside the tomb, peeking out from behind the heavy double doors. You gazed in awe, not truly believing what you were seeing.

**“My poor little** **_bambino…_ ** **so lost and helpless… yearning for someone to guide you,”** came a voice that seemed to come from everywhere. For a moment, you thought it was only in your head, but then the doors of the tomb began to open slowly.

“Who are you? Who’s in there?” you called, standing up on your wobbly feet. Your voice echoed across the desolate rows of stones.

**“You forget me so quickly,** **_mi amore…”_ **replied the voice. “Please… what is your name…” you tried to say, but it tapered off into a murmur. You were completely entranced and stood immovable, even as the wind blew through again to ruffle your coat and whip your hair into your face. 

**“Come to me,** **_angelo mio,”_ ** the voice purred, a strange malevolence in its tone, **“Come to me,** **_angelo della musica.”_ **The voice filled your senses, invading your mind. It seemed to hiss terrifying things at you but soothe you at the same time. Your fingers tingled numbly at your sides as you climbed the steps to the tomb, pulled by an invisible force. The light behind the doors was so bright now, drawing you into its warmth. The voice seemed to be repeating some same words;

**“Come to me, angel of music…”**

Somewhere far away, you could hear another voice calling out to you, one you recognized. They sounded almost panicked. Slowly, it grew until it overpowered the mysterious voice luring you into the tomb.

You blinked, and the light was gone. You whirled around to see Giorno riding into the graveyard on a white horse. Slightly disheveled, sword in hand. He jumped off the horse’s back and rushed up the steps to stand in front of you defensively, pointing his sword towards the invisible enemy.

“Don’t listen to what he tells you, it's the Phantom,” he declared. At this point you were still trying to process the fact that Giorno was here, but then a black shape descended from the roof of the mausoleum and there was a great _CRASH!_ of steel on steel. At first you thought it might have been a bird, but it was far too large for that. Then the shadows cleared from your mind and you realized that it was none other than Diavolo, his sword connected with Giorno’s. 

You stumbled down the steps, away from the clashing blades. You watched as Diavolo swung at his opponent with an obvious anger and malice in his moments, pushing the blond man back across the platform in front of the tomb. Giorno hopped backwards off the platform and onto the ground below, scrambling up just in time to deflect Diavolo’s blow as the man leapt down to attack him again.

They kept going, swinging madly at each other. The horrible metallic sounds ringing in your ears every time the blades met. It seemed Diavolo was getting tired of not being able to land a hit on Giovanna, resorting instead to bashing him in the shoulder with the hilt of his rapier. A wicked _CRUNCH_ resounded across the yard as the blond was knocked to the ground.

You gasped and rushed forward, but it seemed that Giorno wasn’t done fighting yet. He rolled away just in time to avoid what would have been a killing blow from Diavolo, his sword burying itself in a tree root where Giorno’s head had been moments ago.

You noticed from the way Diavolo charged at the blond again, his steps uncoordinated, that he was getting sloppy. His attacks did not lack force -- that was for sure -- but he was tiring himself out too fast. Giorno was quick and kept dodging or blocking his blows. The Phantom lunged forward, but his opponent slipped out of the way and Diavolo’s sword connected with a wrought iron cross on a headstone instead. It was slotted between a gap in the wires, and Giorno took the opportunity to slam his body into the man’s side in an attempt to get him to drop his weapon.

It didn’t work, as Diavolo shoved him back and drew out his blade again. They were much closer this time; their blows barely missing each other. At this point you were screaming at them to stop, but they didn’t listen. Suddenly, Diavolo grabbed the edge of his cloak and threw it over Giorno’s head, blinding him. The blond struggled but Diavolo was quicker this time, whirling back around to slash the side of his arm.

You heard Giorno cry out in pain as blood began to stain the sleeve of his shirt and dye the snow below him red. In one last attack, Giorno rushed forward and practically wrestled the sword from Diavolo’s hands, kicking it away and pushing the man to the ground. Before you could even think, Giorno raised his rapier aloft like a knife ready to stab the Phantom below him.

“No, Giorno! Stop!” you cried. Finally he paused and turned to look at you, almost surprised. You turned your attention to Diavolo, which seemed to deter him from trying to grab his sword again. It was a strange sight, somehow. His coat falling off his shoulder and his hair askew, panting heavily with gritted teeth as he realized he had lost. Giorno backed away and slid his sword back into its sheath. He made a beeline back to his horse, guiding you with him via a hand on the small of your back. You couldn’t take your eyes off Diavolo, though, even as his furious gaze followed the two of you.

You got on the horse behind Giorno, grappling onto his waist as he immediately nudged the horse’s sides and sped off out of the graveyard. You passed Diavolo as he laid on the ground. For those few moments, you stared at each other. Him with anger and shame, and you with waning adrenaline and concern. You opened your mouth to say something, but missed your chance as the horse picked up speed until Diavolo was just a small shape in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations:  
> coccinella - ladybug  
> bambino - child  
> mi amore - my love  
> angelo mio - my angel  
> angelo della musica - angel of music


	9. The Point of No Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited chapter!! The beginning of the end!! It's here!! I'm proud of this one and have been looking forward to writing it so I hope you enjoy <<3

You sat anxiously in your dressing room, applying the finishing touches of your costume for the show happening in less than twenty minutes. You felt the cold weight of dread settle in your stomach. You  _ knew  _ something was going to go wrong tonight, you could feel it.

You were startled by a knock at the door. You turned around and were surprised to see Risotto Nero standing in the doorway of your dressing room.

“Oh, Signore Nero, is the show about to start?” You asked. The man shook his head, “No, I just came to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“You’re scared, I can tell.”

You chuckled dryly, “Is it that obvious?”

Risotto didn’t seem to catch on to your sarcasm and shook his head, “I’m just good at reading people,” he said, sitting down in a chair next to you, 

“Everyone’s counting on you,” he said, tossing a casual glance towards the door of the dressing room, “and even  _ you  _ don’t know if you’re going to be able to do this tonight.”

You nodded.

“Well, I figured I’d put my two cents in,” he continued, “I think you know better than all of us that he’s going to show himself tonight and he’s going to be coming after you. When he does, that’s when you’re going to have to make your play.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a smart kid, I think you’ll know when the moment arrives.”

You took a moment to process what he meant, and in the meantime Risotto huffed, “Listen, if there was anyone in this opera house capable of this job, I’d say it was you.”

You were a little taken aback. Risotto was the last person you ever expected to compliment someone, “T-Thank you, Signore Risotto.”

There was a ghost of a smile on his face as he stood and headed toward the door, “Hurry up and get ready,” he called back to you, “They’ll want you backstage within the next few minutes.”

* * *

Your heart was in your throat by the time you got to the stage. You tried to remember Risotto’s words, but your nerves were getting the better of you. Your costume for the night bordered on scandalous -- a very low-cut Spanish style shirt and corset along with a glittery yellow sash tied around your hips. The stage was like nothing you’d seen before. Everything was red; the backdrop, the curtains, the many torches burning with real flames. There was a hole in the middle of the stage, lined with thin red paper that was standing upwards from air being blown at it, making it flicker about like real flames. A wooden bridge arched over it with two staircases on either side for easy access. It was painted orange and red to match.

The music you heard was nothing like a conventional opera at all. It was beautiful -- but disturbing. The costumes and dance were shocking and you could tell the conservative audience’s feathers were being ruffled at this infringement on propriety. 

On the stage, Risotto was finishing up his solo as his character, Don Juan. His baritone voice was captivating, but you had a hard time focusing. He threw a black cloak over his head and disappeared behind the curtain at the back of the stage, your cue to take your place for the next scene. 

You sat down near the front of the stage, right where a little ‘X’ had been drawn in black paint. Your back was to the curtain, where Don Juan would emerge in only a few moments and you would begin your duet with Risotto. You scanned the theater before you, spotting Giorno above in a private box. A policeman in his navy coat was behind him, rifle in hand. You gulped.

You heard the curtain swish somewhere behind you, and then the voice of Don Juan bellowed over the auditorium;

_ You have come here, in pursuit of your deepest urge, _

_ In pursuit of that wish which ‘til now, has been silent… _

You blanched. That was not Risotto’s voice. You glanced over your shoulder to see the figure of Don Juan, cloaked in black and face obscured by a hood. He looked… shorter. Not that the figure wasn’t tall, but Risotto was  _ massive _ . Unless he shrunk within the two minutes he was offstage, that was someone else entirely. You didn’t need to see the strand of fluorescent pink hair peek out from under the hood. You already knew.

_ I have brought you, that our passions may fuse and merge, _

_ In your mind you have already succumbed to me, dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me. _

_ Now you are here with me, no second thoughts, _

_ You’ve decided… _

You could  _ hear  _ the smirk in his voice. He was not only mocking you, but the entire theater. He had bypassed the trap laid out for him easily. This was his way of gloating. You momentarily feared for Risotto. The other actors had gathered around the edges of the stage, out of sight of the audience, watching the scene unfold. You had a feeling they knew, too. You stood up to face him head on as he slowly stalked towards you.

_ Past the point of no return, no backward glances. _

_ Our games of make believe are at an end. _

You spotted the familiar face of Bucciarati emerge from the pack of crowded actors. He definitely knew; you could see the fear in his eyes, the way he kept glancing between you and the Phantom.

The flames around you burned brighter.

_ Past the point of no return, the final threshold, _

_ What warm unspoken secrets will we learn? _

_ Beyond the point of no return… _

The man backed away from you as the verse ended, shifting his head just so you could see the sinister glint in his eye from under the hood. The tension in the room was unbelievable. You could see Giorno, practically leaning over the banister of his private box. You saw his face the moment he realized who was on stage with you.

The silent audience gazed up at you in anticipation.  _ This is it.  _ You had known that you would be the one to finish this madness once and for all, and you decided at that very moment that before the curtain fell, you would have ended it. You took a deep breath and prepared yourself;

_ You have brought me to that moment when words run dry, _

_ To that moment when speech disappears into silence… _

You gave a quick and inconspicuous nod to Giorno, who immediately turned to speak to the policeman. The officer turned and disappeared from the box. Tiziano, in the opposite box, also got out of his seat and rushed off. You were beginning to get nervous again, but trusted that they knew what they were doing.

_ I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why, _

_ In my mind I have already imagined our bodies entwined, defenseless and silent, _

_ Now I am here with you, no second thoughts, _

_ I’ve decided… _

You turned back to your Don Juan, who stood faceless across from you. You pushed your fears aside, instead focusing on the man in front of you. Emboldened by a sudden rush of confidence, you continued, circling each other menacingly.

_ Past the point of no return, no going back now, our passion play has now at least begun! _

_ Past all thought of right or wrong, one final question; _

_ How long should we two wait before we’re one? _

You both parted, taking your place on either side of the wooden bridge. Climbing the stairs in time with the music, all while staring each other down with a fiery gaze. You were not a victim. You were not a damsel in distress. You were his rival, his equal. 

_ When will the blood begin to race? _

_ The sleeping bud burst into bloom? _

_ When will the flames, at last, consume us? _

You were no longer playing a character, you were singing to each other. It had taken you a surprisingly long time to realize the Phantom’s opera was about  _ you,  _ or at least, how he saw you. You reached the top of the stairs and looked across the bridge to see Diavolo, still staring at you from under the mask. The music was rising to a crescendo as the two of you met in the middle, right in the center of the stage. The Phantom grabbed your arm and spun you around until your back hit his chest, finishing what would have been you and Risotto’s duet;

_ Past the point of no return, the final threshold _

_ The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn _

_ We’ve passed the point of no return… _

A hand snuck out while you were both singing to caress your waist, his head coming to gently rest against yours. The music faded out, leaving the violins to trill their last few notes and fade, bringing the entire world to a standstill. The entire audience watched apprehensively, partially unaware of what was truly going on. All the performers backstage gazed up awestruck, some biting their nails in anticipation. Even Narancia and his friends looked afraid. 

Within that heartbeat, you moved. Before another second could pass, you had turned in Diavolo’s arms and pulled back the hood from his head. Bright magenta hair spilling over the black cloak, and the Phantom stared at you, astonished, from under his bone white mask. You heard a collective gasp from the audience, but no one moved. A  _ ‘click’ _ sounded from behind you; an armed policeman aiming his rifle right at Diavolo’s head. You elected to ignore it, as they would not shoot him here and risk hitting you, too.

“You are truly incredible,” Diavolo breathed, soft enough for only you to hear. Your gaze met his otherworldly green eyes, green as early spring, and you stayed silent. Your actions had spoken enough.

“Never before in my life have I been left begging on my knees for another, but I would for you,  _ mi amore, _ ” he continued, “My solitude is useless now that I have you.”

“I would go anywhere for you,” this time he didn’t call you by a petname, but instead he simply called you by your name, and that almost made you cry right there. 

“I love you,” said the Phantom.

Tears welled in your eyes and a bittersweet smile stretched across your face. You were so sad, but also so happy. Sad because you knew what you had to do; and he wouldn’t like it. He might hate you for what you were about to do. But happy, because…

_ “I love you too.” _

And in one great, fell swoop, you ripped the mask right off Diavolo’s face. The crowd screamed and pointed, the actors backstage, Bucciarati, Narancia -- everyone screamed. Giorno rushed out of his private box while Tiziano and Squalo looked on in horror. For a moment, Diavolo didn’t react, he just looked at you with a defeated kind of expression. However, it quickly morphed into anger as he pulled you roughly into his chest. He searched around, looking first to the chandelier, then the rafters around you, spotting the policeman with their rifles rushing through the rows of guests towards the stage. He seemed to find what he was looking for, pulling a knife from under his cloak and slashing a rope connected to a pulley system. 

The cut rope was pulled upwards into some unseen place; that was when you realized the rope he cut had been  _ holding something up _ . 

You heard another scream, closer this time, and glanced back to see Prosciutto pull back the curtain at the back of the stage to reveal an unmoving Risotto sprawled out on the floor. You gasped at the sight, too overwhelmed at this point to do anything.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the cacophonous tinkling of the hundreds of crystals on the chandelier as the room seemed to quake. You caught the sound of heavy chains rattling over the commotion and watched as the chain holding the grand chandelier up gave way and broke through the ceiling, sending pieces of plaster raining down on the audience below. The screams started anew as everyone collectively realized the chandelier was  _ falling _ , swinging down on the loose chain.

_ “No!” _ you cried helplessly, but the Phantom held you tight in his grasp. He reached out to kick another lever with his foot, opening another trapdoor on the bridge and sending you both plummeting down, straight through the hole on the stage.

You could not scream, only stare up wide-eyed as the theater above disappeared. You saw flames before falling into the pit of darkness below, and heard a frightened Prosciutto calling Risotto’s name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RISOTTO'S NOT DEAD DONT WORRY. I think if I wanted to be more accurate to the movie/musical I could have killed him off but I just couldn't do it, He's already been through so much.
> 
> translations:  
> signore - mr/mister  
> mi amore - my love


	10. The Final Lair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is.............. the final chapter....... sorry it took so long.......

The Opera Napoli was on fire. Giorno had fled from his private box when you had unmasked the Phantom and was now lost in a sea of unfamiliar faces stampeding for the exit. He caught a flash of purple hair and reached out, grabbing Doppio’s arm and pulling him from the fray. 

“Where are they?” he asked the man, shouting over the commotion of the crowd. “I-I don’t know!” replied Doppio fearfully, “I thought Polnareff would have shown up by now!”

“Polnareff?” echoed Giorno, “What about Polnareff? I thought he was still in the hospital.”

“Not anymore,” came a sharp voice from down the hallway. They turned to see none other than Monsieur Polnareff hobbling towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. “Signore Polnareff, it’s dangerous for you to be here,” Giorno tried to say, but Polnareff wouldn’t hear it, silencing the blond with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

“I know what I’m doing, Vicomte Giovanna, and after this is over you’ll thank me for being here. I knew that this would happen and if you want to save your  _ ingénue,  _ I have information you’ll desperately need.”

“I’ve been for someone like you to come along and finally put a stop to all of this. As you can see, I’m not in any shape to face him myself,” Polnareff continued, gesturing to his cane and the leg braces secured around his legs.

“So how do I find him?” 

“Come with me, I’ll show you the way,” the silver-haired man answered, turning on his heel and heading in the opposite direction, leaving Doppio and Giorno to follow behind.

  
  


The backstage area was in complete chaos. Props and crates were knocked over and the stage was beginning to catch fire. The three men took a sharp turn to avoid it, but Giorno caught a glimpse of the wrecked chandelier sitting among the rows of flaming seats through the curtains.

What surprised Giorno was that the bulk of the backstage crew and performers had stayed. That had holed up backstage near the dormitory entrance. Those who were injured were being patched up as they waited for doctors to arrive. Men rushed back and forth from the burning stage carrying buckets of water. Risotto Nero lay prone on a cot nearby, and it seemed he was coming to. 

Despite this, there was a growing sense of anger among them. Giorno cast his gaze to a crowd huddling around a stack of crates where Narancia stood waving an unlit torch as he rallied the furious mob.

“We’ll track down this murderer, he must be found!” the boy cried. The mob cheered in agreement and some armed themselves with makeshift weapons from the debris. 

“We’ll head underground to the canals under the opera house; that’s where the Phantom is hiding,” explained one of Narancia’s friends. Fugo, if Giorno remembered correctly, but he was quickly guided along by Polnareff who kept going past the dormitories.

“The trapdoor under the stage goes straight to the subterranean canals,” Polnareff explained as they walked, “You won’t be able to traverse it without a boat, which the stagehands are retrieving now -- but that will take too long. I know a secret passage that will take you straight to the Phantom’s lair.”

He came to a stop at the end of a long corridor, one not often visited by visitors or even stage. There was an accent table sitting against the wall, which Polnareff pushed out of the way to get to the wall panel behind it. He pushed it gently with his hand and it slid backwards into the wall. Giorno and Doppio watched as the false wall panel slid to the side, revealing a pitch black stairwell crawling with cobwebs that lead into the depths of the opera house. 

They all stared down into the shadowy passageway before Doppio sheepishly tapped the blond on the shoulder and handed him a torch which he had gotten from one of the stagehands.

“This as far as I dare go,” said Polnareff, fixing Giorno with a weighted look, “But I wish you good luck, and remember: keep your hand at the level of your eyes.”

Giorno shucked off his suit jacket, leaving him in his shirt and starched vest. “Thank you, Signore Polnareff, for everything,” he replied, lighting the torch and marching headlong into the darkness below.

Polnareff and Doppio stayed standing there, watching until they could no longer see the glow of Giorno’s torch. They only turned their heads when the cries of the mob echoed through the opera’s burning halls, chanting a horrible song of death.

  
  


* * *

You must have blacked out again. You remembered the icy cold that overtook your body as you and Diavolo hit the water in the canal below. You remembered the sounds of calm waters echoing off the stone ceilings and a strange weightlessness in your body as you were carried back to the Phantom’s lair. You remember your limbs aching as you felt Diavolo set you down somewhere much warmer.

When you finally came to, you were sitting in an old wooden chair in the lair, multiple blankets having been draped over your shoulders. You glanced around the room, recognizing it as the bedroom you had woken up in all those nights ago. The room was lit with candles, and through the curtain blocking off the bedroom from the rest of the lair, you could see the warm glow of even more candles, casting the shadow of Diavolo onto the thin curtain as he paced around the room.

You were still wearing your costume from  _ Don Juan Triumphant,  _ but it was wet and cold and stuck to your skin _.  _ You scanned the room again, spotted something white laying across the makeshift bed in the center of the room. You realized quickly that it was a wedding gown; the same one that the mannequin had been wearing when you came here for the first time. Now you got to see it in more detail. The skirts were layered with offwhite frills and lace, and there was a bustle cage at the back to keep the long train from dragging on the floor. The trumpet-shaped sleeves came down to the elbow and the bodice had a square-cut collar with tiny white buttons going down the front. It was laid out expectantly like someone wanted you to wear it, and seeing you had no other options, you peeled off your wet clothes and quickly pulled on the gown. 

Across the room was a basin full of water and a small towel, which you used to wash the remaining makeup off your face and dry your hair the best you could. You felt a bit more refreshed, but no less confused.

You pushed open the curtain, revealing yourself to Diavolo who immediately turned to you. The black cloak was long gone, leaving Diavolo in his regular clothes, though a bit dishevelled. His white dress shirt was buttoned, hanging open and revealing a sliver of exposed chest. He had on heavy black boots which clicked against the stone floor as he paced. You stared intensely as a long silence settled between you, heavy with unspoken words. 

“Did you bring me here to kill me, too?” you asked finally, voice on the verge of cracking. 

Diavolo’s face scrunched up into a pained scowl, “Of course not.”

“What happened back there?”

The man turned his frustrated gaze away from you, “You betrayed me.”

“How? I did no such thing.”

“You said you loved me,” the Phantom hissed.

“ _ And I do _ . More than anything. You gave my life purpose, Diavolo, but that doesn’t mean I’ll blindly go along with your schemes.”

“Schemes?!”

“There are people badly hurt -- or worse, killed -- because of your actions, and for what?”

“This fate which condemns me to wallow in blood will also proclaim me king,” he said, in a voice like booming thunder, “It is tragic, but it will not matter at the end.”

You shook your head in disappointment, unable to listen any longer. You brushed past Diavolo on your way to the other end of the room where the floor-length mirror stood, covered by another dusty sheet.

“You think all your problems stem from the defect on your face but you’re wrong,” you said, carefully pulling away the sheet, “Your face has never frightened me. It has never influenced any actions I took prior to this night.”

The mirror was slowly revealed, leaving Diavolo to stare at his own reflection. The wrinkly skin clinging to his cheekbone like paper mache. The port wine coloured growths across his chin and eyes. His misshapen nose. None of it mattered.

“It’s in your heart, Diavolo,” you all but whispered, and it hurt you to say this, “There is evil in your heart.”

After a long moment Diavolo glanced away, trying to find something else to look at. However, you watched as his eyes caught onto something outside the lair, visible through the parted curtain that hid the room from the rest of the underground canals.

His eyes turned to you, that familiar look of malicious glee glistening in them, “Wait! I think, my dear, we have a guest!”

You opened your mouth to reply but was quickly cut off by the Phantom grabbing your arm and pulling you out through the gap in the wall and onto the dock of the canal. On the other side of the canal was a tall gateway made of thick iron bars, and standing on the other side was Giorno. You gasped in shock as you took in his appearance: the gash on his arm had reopened and was now staining the sleeve of his shirt red. His hair was dripping with water, his clothes wet and clinging to his body. You wondered if he somehow swam here.

“Giorno Giovanna, what an unparalleled delight,” sneered the Phantom as the blond leaned against the heavy iron bars, clearly out of breath, “I had hoped,  _ sempliciotto _ , that you would come. Now my wish comes true! You have truly made my night!” Saying this, the Phantom pulled you roughly into his side, holding you against him. You struggled in his hold. 

“I demand you free them this instant! I would face you instead! Man to man!” Giorno shouted through the bars. Your heart sunk at the thought. It only took one look at the man to know that he was in no condition to be fighting. 

“Your lover makes a passionate plea,” Diavolo said mockingly. You ignored the jab made in your direction and turned to Giorno, “Please, Giorno, you shouldn’t be here.”

He ignored your urging and continued to shout at Diavolo, “Is it possible, in your cold heart, to find compassion?” the man spat, to which Diavolo took immediate offense.

“ **THE WORLD SHOWED NO COMPASSION TO ME!** ” he roared.

“At least let me see them!” Giorno went on, and this time he pointed to you. Diavolo hesitated a moment, glaring hatefully at the blond man. Slowly, as if realizing something horrible and wicked, a sinister smirk slid over his face.

“Be my guest.”

With this, he stepped away from you, reaching behind one of the grey brick walls to pull an inconspicuous lever which triggered the iron gate to open. Giorno staggered forward through the open gateway as Diavolo waded out into the canal to meet him. 

“You insult me by thinking I would lay a finger on your precious lover,” he all but spat. You realized as Diavolo got closer to Giorno that the gate was lowering behind him again. “Why would I make them pay for the sins which are  _ yours--! _ ” With this, the Phantom lunged at Giorno, hitting the blond square in the jaw and knocking his head against the iron bars. He pulled out a length of rope -- where did he even get that?! -- and tied Giorno’s arms and neck to the gate while he was stunned.

You screamed, rushing into the canal to try and stop them, after only taking a few steps you realized you could hardly move through the water in all these layers of heavy fabric. In frustration you tore at the skirts of your dress, ripping off layers of white taffeta and lace, discarding your shoes and stockings along with it into the murky water.

You rushed forward but were stopped by Diavolo’s icy stare. He had tied a second rope into a hangman’s noose, secured it around Giorno’s neck, and hung the cord from the ceiling of the gateway, allowing him to cut off the blond’s airflow with one simple tug. 

“Here is my proposition,  _ mi amore _ ,” he growled, “Start a new life with me. We will run away where no one knows us and we will live peacefully. Not only that, but I will set Giovanna free and no more harm will come to him. Refuse me, and you send him to his death.”

“What do you choose?”

You had long since began to cry. Hot, angry tears flowed freely down your cheeks despite your gritted teeth and clenched fists. “Why are you making me choose?!” You cried. “You said it yourself,” the Phantom replied, “This is the point of no return. Your pity comes too late.”

“Why make them lie… to save me?” Giorno wheezed as the rope constricted his lungs. 

“I trusted you blindly. And you deceived me,” You said through tears.

“You try my patience. Make your choice,” Diavolo interrupted. To make his point, he gave a sharp tug on the rope, making Giorno choke. 

You looked nervously between Diavolo and Giorno, the latter having gone limp in his restraints. 

“Step away from Giorno then,” you said, trying to hide your nervousness. Diavolo gave you a suspicious glare, but eventually let go of the rope and stepped away from the iron gate. Cautiously, you approached him.

“I had always wondered what sort of life you had led that would lead you to do these horrible things,” you said tentatively, “but I do know one thing.”

“And what is that?”

“You are not alone.”

Slowly, you raised your trembling hand and brushed your fingertips against his pale cheek. In that moment, you took a chance. You did something that you had wanted to do for a long time now. Your lips met in a flurry of passion as you cupped Diavolo’s face in your hands, steadying yourself on your tiptoes to reach him. He was stiff with shock for a moment but quickly melted into you.

When you parted, you didn’t miss the way he leaned into you, almost chasing the feeling of his lips on yours. Although, he quickly backed up, remembering himself. Diavolo was staring at you with a mixture of shock, pain and disbelief on his face. His eyes began to tear up, even as he desperately tried to blink them away. You reached up to caress his cheek again, but he shook his head, pulling away from you.

“ _ Go, _ ” he croaked, “Forget all of this. Take the boat and leave this place.  _ Leave me alone _ .”

Through the darkened canals you began to hear echoes. Angry voices shouting and they were getting closer. You wadded over to Giorno and hurriedly untied him. He fell into your arms and you wrapped his arm over your shoulder and carried him over to the boat tied to the dock. Diavolo had retreated inside the lair, leaving you alone with the half-unconscious blond and the angry mob closing in on the Phantom’s hideout.

You sat Giorno down in the boat and rushed back inside the lair, the tattered remains of the wedding gown clinging to your legs. You heard the sound of glass shattering and pulled back the curtain to see Diavolo on the other side of the room, having just smashed the mirror inside the alcove where the mannequin once stood, now laying lopsided on the floor and covered in curtains ripped from the walls.

You both froze, just staring at each other. Behind the broken mirror was yet another secret passageway, veiled by darkness. You approached him to which he just stared at you with uncertainty, like a stray cat.

“I just wanted to say goodbye, because I’m sure if I’ll get to see you again,” you said, voice wavering, “But I just wanted to say thank you. Even though it’s been horrible and terrifying and all these bad things have happened, this has been the best year of my life. It’s because of you I know what I’m going to do with the rest of my life: I’m going to sing.”

You gently tugged him by his hands to sit with you on the old raggedy loveseat in the center of the room. Diavolo cast his gaze down to the stone floor below, “Would you,  _ mio fiore…  _ sing one last song for me?” 

You nodded, taking a moment to decide what song you were going to sing.

_ There was a boy, _

_ A very strange enchanted boy. _

_ They say he wandered very far, very far, over land and sea. _

_ A little shy and sad of eye _

_ But very wise was he. _

  
  


_ And then one day, a lucky day he passed my way. _

_ And while we spoke of many things, fools and kings, this he said to me _

_ The greatest thing you’ll ever learn _

_ Is to love and be loved in return. _

Just as you finished, more echoes came resounding through the underground tunnels, even louder this time. “I have to go,” you blurted, jumping to your feet, “But I just want you to know, I meant what I said. You’re not alone anymore. You can grow from this and I will be there to support you.”

Diavolo started to back away towards the passageway in the wall, cautiously throwing glances to the entrance of the lair as if he expected someone to pop out of nowhere. 

“And Diavolo?”

“Hm?”

“That song won’t be your last,” you smiled, “Goodbye.”

With that, you whirled around and rushed out of the lair, Diavolo doing the same, throwing down a curtain to cover his exit. You hopped onto the boat, swaying poor Giorno who was just waking up, untied it from the dock and began to paddle like mad up the canal. When the mob got there, they would find nobody. You knew that eventually you would have to confront the rest of the theater and explain everything to them, but you couldn’t. Not tonight.

You were interrupted from your thoughts by Giorno groaning in pain next to you.

“Giorno? Are you alright?” you asked him.

“Yes. It seemed everything turned out alright in the end,” he said, smiling weakly. “You could’ve died, Giorno,” you gently admonished him. “But I didn’t. I took a gamble on you, and it paid off?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I said that I took a gamble on you and it paid off,” he repeated, “I find that higher stakes yield higher reward. I knew that the Phantom had a soft spot for you, and I knew if I was unable to fight he would feel less threatened. It gave you a chance to talk him down.”

You shook your head in disbelief, “You really are clever, Giorno.”

The blond chuckled, “I suppose so.”

  
  


* * *

The Naples Opera House did not seem that intimidating anymore. As you and Giorno rushed out of the courtyard, past the firefighters battling the flames inside, you glanced back at the giant Baroque-style building you had called home for the past year. Smoke poured out the many windows and orange flames somewhere in the back of the building lit up the night sky. You knew that your life would never be the same, and you were at peace with that. 

As Giorno ushered you into his carriage sitting on the curb, your mind wandered to Diavolo. He was far from perfect, but you loved him anyway. You hoped that your last encounter had encouraged him to start the path of recovery on his own. To build a place for himself. 

You could only hope that you would see him again.

  
  


_ FIN. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND IT IS DONE. This is probably one of my proudest works I've made to date. The song reader sings for Diavolo is Nature Boy by Nat King Cole. I used the lyrics from Cole's version but the acoustic cover by Aurora is really good too.
> 
> translations:  
> vicomte - viscount  
> ingénue - ingenue   
> sempliciotto - simpleton  
> mi amore - my love  
> mio fiore - my flower


End file.
